


The Soldier and the Mountain

by MarleyMortis



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Alcoholism, Anger Management, Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Asthmatic Steve Rogers, Ballet, Ballroom Dancing, Bucky has a cat, Clint Barton is awesome, Deaf Clint Barton, Depression, Diabetic Alert Dog, Diabetic Steve Rogers, Escaping Domestic Abuse, Forced Drug Use, Infidelity, Irish Steve Rogers, James is a professional dancer, M/M, Mild animal abuse, New York City Ballet, No Animal Is Actually Hurt, PTSD, Please be aware of the angst, Psuedobulbar Affect, Rape, Rape Recovery, Recovery isn't linear, Recreational Drug Use, Repressed Memories, STI, Some cuteness too, Suicidal Ideation, Tattooed Bucky, The Abuse Is Threatened, The cat wears sweaters, domestic abuse, e.e. cummings poetry, non-con, russian bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-09-15 09:49:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 110,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9229340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarleyMortis/pseuds/MarleyMortis
Summary: This is a story about recovering from rape, society's apathy toward victims of campus assault, and one man's trial to escape an abusive relationship in a world where men are painted as the batterer.  When James Barnes, professional dancer, starts realizing his long-term boyfriend isn't interested in a healthy relationship, he meets Steve Rogers, one of his boyfriend's victims and a soon-to-be-graduate from NYU.  Their friendship seems impossible, but maybe they are what the other needs to start clawing out of their traumatic pasts.  The road is long and arduous, but recovery always is.





	1. Allegro

**Author's Note:**

> I'm more nervous to post this than I thought I would be, but it's a very touchy subject matter. This started as an idea to address the horrendous way society handles rape, especially rape where intoxicating substances are involved and the victim blaming that runs rampant whenever we hear headlines about it. Our society also has a tragic track record in handling male rape and male domestic abuse. I can only hope I've done the subject matter delicately and with the justice it needs to be handled.
> 
> Warning: This subject matter can be very triggering to some people. Please read cautiously and mind the tags.

He wore red tights. The sweat-slick lines of his body created serpentine patterns as he bent a half-moon shape in mid-air. Muscles stretched pale skin taut like shark fins parting water. The way he moved was poetry in motion, a subtle twitch pulling his leading leg to an impossible new angle and changing the performance from defiant confidence to broken glass.

When he landed, the floor barely gasped with the settling of his weight. 

A quick jump launched him back into the air, a spring exploding from its compression. His legs fluttered into a scissor motion. An arm extended over his head. Thin fingers finished the arch of his arm. Toes skimmed the wooden dance floor, polished to silvery ice by countless dancers.

The last strains of violin faded. Stillness, pregnant with emotional turbulence, blanketed the studio. A smattering of applause followed from the corps de ballet and soloists gathered along the perimeter as they doctored the day's bruises and abrasions.

Leonid Novokov was a beautiful dancer, lyrical, emotional, innovative. He moved like water burbling over a rock-strewn bed and had enjoyed a principal position on the New York City Ballet for the past two seasons ever since the twenty year old had exploded onto the dance scene out of Russia. Dance seemed as easy to him as breathing. Critics loved him. Audiences adored him. 

James was apathetic.

That wasn't to say the young stallion was an indecent sort of person. James wouldn't know that considering their daily conversation was limited to “Hello,” “Goodbye,” and the occasional “Traffic is a nightmare today.” Their nonexistent social relationship couldn't even be blamed on Leonid. No, the fault rested solely on James' shoulders.

Because James was an asshole.

From the over-long, hickory hair pulled studiously into a tight bun to the numerous tattoos painting his body, he was every inch the wrong sort of danseur. Distant, aloof, frozen right down to his core some said. His sister, Revekka—Rebecca to her peers at Columbia—blamed it on being born in Lyovikha, Siberia, an old mining town that had been wasting away since the fall of Soviet Russia. It was most notable for the outrageous crime epidemic and the discovery of more than two hundred mummified fetuses. Lyovikha, the place where human decency went to die.

When their father had landed a job doing metal work in the American city of Brooklyn, Yasha had become James; he hated the sound of the name Jacob. Buturovich had become Buchanan. And Barinov had become Barnes. He was a Russian transplant into a vastly different culture, and the warm New York summers had done nothing to thaw the iceberg existing in place of his heart.

So being irritated by Leo's easy rapport with his colleagues and ability to infuse his dance with emotion meant James swallowed the stinging barbs that longed to fly from his mouth. Envy and jealousy coated his iceberg with green moss, only it was never sharp enough to become action.

While the others applauded the man's solo choreography, he could only stare at a gossamer dust mote gliding across the floor while unwrapping the tape from his ankles. Bruises crawled along his skin from a broken toe. He flexed the digit, gritted his teeth against the ache and almost missed their ballet master, Ana Jarvis, calling them to attention over the sound of his own blood rushing past his ears.

He rolled up to fall in line with the other male soloists, heels together, feet fanned out like a whale's fluke, arms down, and fingers turned inward to form the soft lines of first position. Around him, the rest of the company moved into ranks, an ordered corps of dancers squared up like an infantry division. They stood in readiness to await their general.

Mrs. Jarvis spoke quietly with one of her assistants before addressing them. “Our director will be here shortly to choose his leads for the upcoming season. We shall be developing a new ballet, one written specifically for our company by the talented Stanimir Leopold. It tells the story of a man and woman betrayed by their country and fighting for freedom.”

The susurrus voices babbled as white noise against the backdrop of their army and was quieted only by the door opening again to admit their director, Edwin Jarvis. He was a lanky man and a former dancer just past his prime who had enjoyed a celebrated career at the English National Ballet. He paused to touch his wife's shoulder before moving amidst the company. Now and then, he stopped to look at a particular ballerina. A shake of the head from Ana meant he moved to the next.

Both ballet masters stopped in front of Natalia Romanova. The lines of her body tensed. Her head tilted slightly skyward to expose the long line of her neck, her crimson hair a beautiful contrast to the milk of her skin. At thirty-five, she was nearing the end of her career, her lead roles recently usurped by the younger Yelena Belova.

Mrs. Jarvis nodded. Mr. Jarvis entered her name into his tablet. Natalia's shoulders eased a hair's breath away from coiled spring. Belova's expression turned poisonous, like the venom of Jormungandr dripping into the face of Loki.

James held no aspirations when the Jarvises approached the danseurs to select their male lead. He was content with his work, lacked the ambition necessary to claw tooth and nail for a chance to elevate himself. He had a decent career. At thirty, he was closer to the end than the beginning and would age out and make the transition to full-time instructor for the company, but when Mr. Jarvis paused beside him, he couldn't help an indrawn breath, couldn't prevent himself from meeting the man's glance, his icy blue refusing to be warmed by the summer sky staring him down.

Having no ambition meant he wasn't disappointed when they moved past, just settled into his stance and continued looking into the middle distance, ignoring the looks Natalia tried to exchange with him in the mirror. All he could see when he closed his eyes was two sweaty bodies heaving together on sheets black as night. A familiar pierced cock disappeared into a body that wasn't his.

What did come as a surprise was the failure of their artistic director to choose a male lead before leaving. Voices twittered with uncertainty, but the mystery remained unsolved while Mrs. Jarvis dismissed class for the afternoon.

James grabbed his gym bag but was stopped from heading to the locker rooms by their ballet master calling for him to remain behind. Leo and Pietro's names were also called.

Shouldering his bag, he padded toward Mrs. Jarvis.

“The three of you are being considered for the lead in our upcoming program. Mr. Jarvis would like each of you to develop choreography for a solo dance to take place during the climax of the ballet. In three weeks, he will evaluate your submissions and choose his lead.”

To call it unusual was an understatement and took him with as much surprise as learning he was being considered for a principal position. He accepted the packet and glanced at his colleagues. It was impossible to mistake the differences between them, his companions being tall and svelte, the lean musculature of danseurs at the peak of their conditioning. In comparison, he looked like a tank, all broad shoulders and an inability to lose that last ten pounds that would make him into a graceful swan.

Imagining those sweaty bodies of earlier disrupted the hushed solemnity of the practice studio in a rhythmic beat as old as procreation. Guttural voices grunted with the exertion of their bodies. Their sweat and lube left damp puddles on the dark sheets.

He beat-feet to the locker rooms the moment Mrs. Jarvis dismissed them, ignoring Natalia's husky voice calling after him. A shower didn't help. It only gave him opportunity to relive the shock of walking in on them while water pounded sore muscles from above.

_“What did you expect, James?” Alex said in that matter-of-fact tone that drove James up a wall. “You've been gone for two weeks.”_

_“I wasn't gallivanting across the country. I was working.”_

_“Two weeks, James.” Then, in a quieter voice, Alex continued, “My sweet boy, he means nothing. You are overreacting to what was a primal need.”_

_He shuddered at Alex's favorite term of endearment. “This is not the first time.” His glance shied away to look at Brock Rumlow, still lounging in their bed as though he had every right to be there._

_“My needs must be met. I adore you, sweet boy, but loving you isn't easy. You're so distant when you're working. It breaks my heart when you look at me so coldly.”_

_“I am not cold,” James said in an attempt to deny what he knew was the truth. “That is just how I am when I'm working. The music is inside me. I cannot focus on anything more than dance rhythms.”_

_“There was a time when you said I inspired your dance.”_

_“That was before--” He swallowed in an effort to chew the ice creeping into his throat. “That was before you brought Jazz into our bed.”_

_“Jasper was nothing. Just like Brock is nothing. Now, come on. Let me give you a bath. You know how I like taking care of you. A bath is just what you need after a hard day.”_

A fist connected with and cracked the tile in the shower stall. Pink bled down the wall to snake into the drain. He glanced down to his knuckles to see they were unmarred and to the tiles again to find them white because actually punching the wall would require action. It would require technicolor when James' world was gray, so he could only imagine anger.

They had met three years ago at a luncheon honoring the benefactors of the ballet company. It had been unusual enough for the eighteen year old Alex to become a member of the Serenade Society, the company's society for donors, that James had remembered his face when, a few months later, Alex had invited him for a night at the opera. He'd readily agreed. That night had turned into a solid relationship, but part of him wondered who he would find in their bed next.

Drunk on misgivings, James nearly ran into the wiry form of Natalia Romanova, who leaned against the wall outside the male locker room. He moved past her without acknowledging her presence and would have kept going if her grip wasn't so strong. He looked down to find her clutching his left wrist, the sensation of her fingers more tingle than pressure because of nerve damage.

The studio was otherwise empty, the lights dim and casting eerie shadows on the silent dance floor. She looked up, head cocked to the side and something unreadable in the forest of her eyes. Silence stretched. She held him captive, enthralled by the elegant lines of her face.

“How are you?” A Russian accent sharpened her voice to a razor's edge.

His response was a terse, “Fine.”

Her gaze refused to waver, pregnant with expectation.

“What?”

“I'm not talking about class.”

“Then what?”

She turned the tablet around and offered it to him.

There, emblazoned across the website for the Washington Square News, the university's independent student newspaper, dripped the damning words in a garish headline that read _“NYU Violet's Star Soccer Captain Questioned in Off-Campus Rape.”_ Breath stuttered past his lips. “This is today's edition?”

“What do you need?”

Shock came first. Denial came second. Then came the baby in the baby carriage. “He wouldn't. Alex is many things, but he is not capable of something like this.”

Feeling a sense of numbness creeping up from his ankles, he read through the article again. It detailed a violent rape outside the popular party hangout known as the Pi Eta Chi Chi House. The young victim, whose name was being withheld for privacy reasons, had been found badly beaten and gang raped in a nearby alley. Witnesses claimed the victim had been seen drunk earlier at the party.

“He wouldn't, Natalia. Alex has never been violent with me or anyone else.”

“I'm not accusing him of anything.”

“Then why bring to my attention?”

“Because you need to know. Because I'm not certain Alexander would tell you himself.”

The first stirring of uncertainty rippled the calm waters. He returned the tablet. “I must go. Alex will be home soon. I have to-- I need to look him in the eyes when I ask him.”

James pushed past the woman to leave, stepping out into the early autumn warmth. His surroundings blurred. Rush hour traffic as crowds of people moved toward the nearest metro station jostled him but did nothing to pull him back from replaying the garish headline.

By the time he disembarked at his stop and keyed inside the apartment they shared, he'd surrendered to mild paranoia. “Alex wouldn't” turned into “But Jasper Sitwell and Brock Rumlow,” which then became “maybe if you hadn't been so emotionally distant.” Sweat moistened his palm. He fumbled while turning the lock and dropped his gym bag just inside to move across the studio to their bed.

Laughter bubbled into the quiet. Logically, he knew he shouldn't be laughing. He did anyway.

A protein shake and a handful of nuts did nothing to settle his unease. He imagined himself as a Jack-in-the-Box, coiled to strike at the first vibrations that set him off. More laughter filled the air, laughter instead of the tears most people would produce.

No matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, he couldn't ignore the accusation of Alex's apology after having been caught fucking Jazz in the very bed James was expected to sleep on.

_“What did you expect, James? You're never home, and when you are, it's become like making love to an iceberg. The mechanics are there, but the emotional connection is gone.”_

_“You could have told me,” he returned in a whisper._

_“Told you? I've been telling you. You don't even listen to me anymore, not really. If you hadn't shut me out, I wouldn't have needed to go elsewhere to have my needs met. You've hurt me so much, sweet boy, that I'm not sure where we stand anymore.”_

He couldn't stop the carousel winding his thoughts into circles, and it was only through a series of breathing exercise that he managed to derail the mounting anxiety. Anxiety was wrong. Icebergs weren't allowed to feel anxious. This was all his fault anyway. If Alex had committed some sort of crime-- This was all his fault anyway. James had driven him to it, unable to forgive-- This was all his fault anyway. Unable to forgive him quickly enough-- This was all his fault anyway-- Unable to forgive him quickly enough for them to get back the reasons they'd fallen in love.

This was all his fault anyway.

The front door opened.

He giggled.

James dragged himself off the carousel and looked at the evidence of their combined lives. His dance tights were mixed up in the same drawer with Alex's game socks. One of his jackets had been hanged on the same hanger as one of Alex's dress shirts. Two different brands of heat pads to sooth sore muscles rested on the nightstand. His sheet music was stuffed in between Alex's sports magazines.

In the corner, one set of luggage remained unpacked from that night three months ago when he'd found Alex screwing Brock in their bed. It represented the foot he already had out the door, and the realization that Alex's cheating was his fault hit him like a ton of bricks.

James scooped up Ivan from the window seat to pull the Ukrainian levkoy into his chest. The cat was light gray and only had a fine dusting of hair, classifying him as a hairless breed. The tips of his ears folded over, and his big, sea foam eyes made him look part alien and part fruit bat.

“Are you cold, Ivan? Where's your sweater?”

He located the article beneath the bed and sat down to wiggle Ivan's, who was familiar with the routine, paws through the armholes. It wasn't that James was one of those pet owners who dressed their cat in cute outfits out of fashion sense. Being hairless, Ivan needed the extra warmth during the fall and winter months. The fact that the cat's current sweater was a crocheted one done in orange and black with a little pumpkin across the chest was only of secondary interest. Sort of. Okay, so James thought it was ridiculously adorable.

His boyfriend's voice startled him. “Hello, sweet boy. You're home early.”

Setting Ivan aside, he climbed to his feet to confront Alex. Tight control kept his voice from wavering when he said, “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” asked Alex, shoulder propped against the door frame.

“I saw the newspaper headlines.” He was breathless when he continued, “Why didn't you tell me you were questioned in an off-campus rape? I had to hear about it from one of the ballerinas.”

Tension settled like rigor mortis on the other man's shoulders as he dropped a gym bag on the foot of the bed and emptied the contents. Used clothes wound up in the hamper. Empty bottles settled into the waste basket. It was impossible to tell if Alex was ignoring him or collecting his thoughts.

He almost swore in Russian but stopped himself at the last second. “What the fuck, Alex, we have a recycling bin or a goddamn reason.” Jerking to his feet, he collected the bottles from the waste basket and deposited them in the bin in their kitchen before returning. “Talk to me. What happened?”

“Aren't you going to ask me whether or not I'm guilty?”

“Do I need to?”

Tension finally rushed away like the tide pulling away from the shore. “Fuck, it was just procedure, James. They brought everyone in from the Pi Eta Chi Chi House that night for questioning. I told them everything I knew, which wasn't much. That guy was pissed drunk. Everyone saw him dancing on one of the tables earlier. He probably picked up someone, took them out back for a suck job, and then regretted it once sobriety caught up with him.”

He took a tentative step forward and reached for Alex's shoulder only for his boyfriend to duck away. “I am sorry, little star. I did not mean to sound like I was accusing you. It's just that since Brock--”

Alex huffed an irritated breath. “I'm never going to live that down, am I?”

James wanted to reassure him, but every time he closed his eyes, he could still see the ring piercing Alex's cock slipping into another man. He could still hear their grunts and see the cum staining the sheets he'd slept in the night before.

“I am trying.”

“We'll never get past this until you can learn to forgive me. For Christ's sakes, you haven't even unpacked yet.” He swept a hand angrily toward the luggage in the corner. “Maybe it would do us some good to take a break. That way we can each figure out what we want out of this relationship, decide if we can ever get back to that place where I want to make you Mr. James Pierce.”

“No.” The thought of being alone again sent an unexpected jolt through his guts. He remembered what it felt like to come home after a difficult class to an empty apartment, on those nights where the iceberg treated his soul like the Titanic and left him shaking and on the edge of becoming the monsters he'd seen in Lyovikha, the monsters who had--

“Sweet boy, look at me. You're safe.”

Warm hands cupped his shoulders. He snatched his glance up from the floor and sagged into the welcoming arms of the younger man. At thirty, it was his responsibility to take care of his twenty-one year old boyfriend, but it didn't feel like that right now. It felt like he was spinning off his axis.

He felt himself be pulled against a broad chest and nestled there to inhale the spicy fragrance of Alex's body wash and the laundry detergent they used. They even washed their clothes in the same load. Their lives were too intertwined to even consider trying to unravel those threads.

“I do forgive you, little star. It's my fault I've been unable to see past the betrayal, not yours.”

Alex shushed him but relaxed the embrace moments later. “Enough of that. Get dressed. I'm taking you to Carmine's for dinner. Home cooked Italian sounds like just the comfort food we need. That gray Henley and wine colored racing jacket I got you for Christmas looks amazing on you.”

“You know I cannot. Pasta is not in my dietary list when starting classes for an upcoming season. I am considered for lead in new program we are developing.”

“Baby, that's wonderful,” Alex exclaimed. “But you do understand Carmine's doesn't only serve pasta, right? I'm sure you can find something on your approved diet plan. And you should watch your accent better. You're starting to sound too Russian again.”

The laughter in Alex's voice unsettled him. It meant judgment, the sort of teasing that said James was stupid for not realizing an Italian restaurant didn't only serve pasta, but objecting wasn't worth the argument. He felt stupid explaining that being surrounded by one of his favorite dishes without being able to eat it was tantamount to torture.

Instead, he knuckled down and changed, slicking his hair back into its customary bun with product before joining Alex at the front door. Whatever it took to keep Alex happy, to keep his lover from realizing how very cold he was on the inside. Astronauts could drop him off at the center of the sun, and he still wouldn't be anything but the monster Lyovikha had made him to be.

***

Ethics was Steve's least favorite class. Rate-my-professor-dot-com had two camps when it came to Professor Tony Stark: either you loved him or you hated him, but no one had warned potential students that Stark flew through lectures by the seat of his pants, helped along by inappropriate jokes and Red Bull. His comments had half the class cheering him as a champion of free speech, a defender against the encroaching PC brigade. The other half, and Steve was firmly entrenched in the second camp, gritted their teeth through every lecture, counting the minutes until they could escape.

The people who argued against the common decency of not making a joke out of prima nocta, an old custom wherein a nobleman had the right to take the virginity of any bride on his estate, could only be classed as bullies. In short, Tony Stark was a douche-canoe whose sense of moral decency had been warped by absentee parents, cocaine, and alcohol, but Steve needed the class in order to graduate at the end of the semester. Dropping would set back his graduation.

Teeth clenched, he hunkered down in his seat and would have continued doodling in the margin of his textbook when Clint nudged him and pointed toward the classroom projector. Newspaper articles appeared on the white board that detailed the allegations of the recent rape currently spreading like wildfire across the NYU campus. Seeing Stark's new topic turned the screw of his tension.

“Protecting the names of rape victims by failing to publish them in news reports. Ethical or shoddy journalistic reporting?” Stark paused a moment. “Come on. Anybody?” A twitter of murmuring raced across the auditorium. “Cats got your tongues? Surely someone must have an opinion.”

Steve raised his hand.

“Does anyone else have an opinion?”

Nearby, Billy Kaplan shifted in his seat before saying, “I feel uncomfortable using such a recent event for today's discussion. For all we know, the victim involved is taking part in this lecture.”

Billy's partner, Teddy Altman, nodded agreement but didn't speak aloud.

“Is this one of those trigger warning things?” Stark demanded. “Come on, guys, we talked about this, and I encouraged anyone who intended to squeal 'I've been triggered' to drop the class. This is not a safe space. It's a space to get you youngsters thinking with your minds instead of your feelings.”

Another moment of uncomfortable murmuring followed.

Stark finally girded his loins. “Fine. Rogers, you have the floor.”

“The general public--”

The professor interrupted, “Be up standing when you address the jury.”

Steve chewed the inside of his cheek in search of an ounce more patience, but patience was in short supply these days. He got to his feet, his six feet two inches of muscle allowing him to tower over most people on campus. “A victim of rape has already endured one of the most traumatic experiences a person can go through. Protecting their identity prevents the general public from victimizing them again given how obsessed this culture is with victim blaming.”

“And yet, our news media has no problem publishing the names of other sorts of victims. If you're murdered, your name is up there in lights. If your home is broken into, your name is given to the public. If you're involved in a hit and run, the general public gets to know about it. So why then do we treat victims of rape differently?”

“Because victims of assault, theft, and murder aren't routinely blamed for their assault, theft, and murder. Victims of sexual assault, however, are.”

“Some argue that by denying the general public identifying information we feed into the mystique that is rape, that if we start reporting it as any other sort of crime, then the stigma will unravel.”

“It's not the job of the victim to carry the burden of destigmatizing rape. That victim has already suffered enough without facing the firing squad that is the court of public opinion. Just look at the news coverage when a female celebrity is hacked and her nude photos passed around on the internet.

“They take those photos for their own private consumption and store them in what are supposed to be safeguarded accounts in the cloud, but when they're hacked and those photos released to the general public, they are the ones who carry the burden of blame. We don't blame the person who deliberately broke into a secure account and distributed them.”

Stark opened his mouth to return fire but was interrupted when Professor Banner, who taught a biology class in the same lecture hall cleared his throat to announce his presence, prompting Stark to say, “Looks like this discussion will have to wait until next week. Anyone who doesn't read the material before next class stands in the corner with the dunce cap.”

Steve couldn't confess his relief at the interruption, just hooked his book bag over his shoulder and got the Hell out of Dodge, Clint fast on his heels. Bursting from the doorway, he beat-feet down the hall to slide into the nearest bathroom where he locked himself in a stall and allowed his breathing to thunder out of control. Impending doom swallowed logical thought. If he was quiet, they might not find him. They might pass by the dumpster and not see him crouching in the shadows, unable to fight past the hallucinations brought on by a double dose of liquid ecstasy he hadn't seen being slipped into his beer.

Scrambling backward onto the toilet, he brought his forearms up to cover his face. He felt exposed and raw inside the public bathroom. There was nowhere to hide, and he was convinced everyone could see the neon lights over his head that proclaimed him “rape victim” and “weakling.” He wasn't safe anymore. If they knew, bad things would happen.

A soft knock on the stall door made him jump, and his weight damn near broke the toilet. Someone was speaking. A familiar voice murmured over the sound of other men using the facilities. There was some comfort in the scent of anti-bacterial sprays and other cleaning products masking the odor of human waste; the alley had smelled like garbage.

“Stevie, don't make me climb over the door. Open up, buddy. Talk to me.”

“I'm fine.”

“Yeah, not really buying that right now.”

“I'm fine. I just need a minute.”

People came and went, and the bathroom slowly cleared out, leaving Clint and him in solitude. The solitude was nice, helped bring him back from that panicky place that turned him into a deer with its white tail held high in warning. His anxiety attack ebbed enough to draw in normal breaths, and he finally unlocked the door to find Clint standing outside with his shoulder propped against the wall.

“Hey there.”

“Hi,” Steve whispered, unable to look the other man in the face.

“You wanna head outside? Get some air?”

He shook shaggy blond hair, longer than he'd ever allowed it to grow before. The scraggly appearance was matched by ten days without shaving. It was hard to think about shaving when the bright gleam of light off the razors in his kit looked like his own personal cyanide tablet, when the sharp bite of pain seemed less important than escaping the shame weighting his shoulders.

Clint, his roommate, continued leaning against the wall. The man's patience knew no bounds, it seemed, and he somehow knew to keep his posture carefully relaxed, non-threatening. “Stevie.” A weight of disapproval and expectation loaded down the singular use of his name.

“I'm fine,” he reiterated, this time with emphasis.

“Sure. Fine as Sy Snootles.”

Steve leveled a blank look at his roommate and said in a flat tone, “You're a dork.”

“Don't know, though, the way she lip-sucked that microphone. Probably real good with her mouth. I should e-mail Jabba. See if he hit that.” Clint scrambled to catch up with him when he moved to the sinks. “There's a guy over at Counseling and Wellness that could help you. He seems like a--”

“I don't need a therapist, Clint.” He turned on the faucet at full blast and scrubbed his hands under the scalding water until his roommate shut it off and moved his hands away before he could do serious damage. Moments of silence passed. “A therapist'll just tell me the same things I can tell myself.”

“You ain't eating right. You ain't taken your insulin for a week--”

“Clint.” A new note of pleading scratched his vocal cords.

“We're worried about you.”

Jaw locked like a rusted bear trap, he pushed away from the sinks and grabbed his book bag before stomping from the restroom. The last thing he did before disappearing outside was to say over his shoulder, “Don't be. I'm fine.”

They emerged onto the sidewalk and both headed toward their favorite coffee shop for a much needed fix, Clint chattering beside him as though he hadn't just had a minor breakdown in the middle of a public bathroom. He appreciated his roommate's ability to go from one emotional high to another and managed to unwind himself enough by the time they arrived that he no longer felt like a live wire.

Things would have settled into a sense of normalcy after that. They would have gotten their coffee, had a seat at one of the pedestal tables, and chilled. Really, that was how things could have gone. It was not how things went.

While Steve and Clint waited in line, a young lady in the process of transitioning attempted to go around a man in order to reach the ladies restroom. Said man stuck his leg out to block her path and snidely pointed out the restroom with the little man icon. It escalated to the point the asshole shoved to his feet and said he wasn't letting some freak with a penis go into the same restroom as his girlfriend.

Steve couldn't stand by and watch someone being harassed, so he broke ranks—Clint groaned behind him—and approached the situation in time to grab the offender's wrist, which was now holding the young lady's arm. “If you're uncomfortable with your girlfriend taking a piss in a stall next to another lady, I suggest you go back to your cave and stay there where she'll be safe.”

Clint groaned again.

“Hey, this isn't none of your business, asswipe. Take a hike.”

“I'm making it my business. Now step out of the way and let the lady do her thing.”

“Fuck off.”

“Make me,” Steve snapped.

The woman manning the register interrupted them to shout, “Take it outside.”

Thankfully, his roommate had a touch better control of his temper and managed to insinuate himself between them to prevent any punches from being thrown. “Let it go, Rogers.”

“He's being an inbred cave dweller,” Steve snapped back.

“And you're beating your chest like King Kong. She's gone anyway.”

Steve turned to see that the lady he'd been defending had skedaddled and was nowhere on the sidewalk to be seen. That wasn't the point, of course. He wanted to teach the cretin some manners and was itching for a fight but allowed Clint to push him outside. By that point, the asshole's girlfriend had returned and managed to wrangle him into leaving without fuss.

It meant a load of adrenaline surged through his body without a means of diffusing it. He was practically shaking with unspent physicality and barely noticed when his roommate gave him a little shove to get his attention. The other man spoke. His lips moved, but Steve could only hear the rush of blood in his ears from his fight or flight instincts becoming hyper-aware.

Finally, he heard Clint ask, “Hey, are you okay?”

“Yeah.” His roommate's look remained dubious. “Really. You have to get to your next class, so I'll see you later this evening. Okay?”

The other man continued to watch him in a guarded fashion.

“Oh for Pete's sake, I'm fine.”

As long as he could describe himself as fine, that made it true. Clint headed off to his next class, and Steve went the opposite direction to take a walk and cool off. And he was fine. He slept (sometimes). He ate (junk food his doctor would ream him a new one for). He remembered to take the medications that kept his various physical conditions under control (maybe). That meant he was still taking care of himself. As long as that was true, as long as he still went to classes, then the world wouldn't realize what an absolute failure he was, what a helpless victim he was.

Emotion congealed into a block of coal in his throat. Nothing had been the same since that night at the Pi Eta Chi Chi House. It was the local party hang-out, the seat of operations for a fraternity of the same name founded by a Nordic prince who called himself Loki. Anyone who was anyone showed up at Loki's keggers where the beer was plentiful and people hooked up for inconsequential sex.

The only reason he had even gone was because Clint had been writing a paper for his journalism class on fraternity culture, and he'd agreed to ride shotgun. His second beer had been supplied by a cute guy who had seemed interested in getting to know each other better, delivered with a noxious gift, and Steve should have known better. He knew better than to accept drinks from strangers, and one lapse in judgment had reduced him to a hallucinogenic kaleidoscope.

Memories became fuzzy after that point. He could remember bits and pieces, the panic of being manhandled up against a wall in one of the numerous bedrooms, gasping the word “stop” past the bright colors as the door wrapped wood grain arms around him to hold him aloft. He was pretty sure he'd punched the guy, because the next thing he knew, he was outside in the alley and desperately hiding in the shadows of a dumpster as the pavement undulated like a worm up his pant leg.

They had found him.

Rough hands had stripped him. Countless hands had groped his naked flesh. Pinned him to the concrete. Laughter, wicked and gusty. An erection splitting his--

Steve stopped in his tracks, causing several people to run into him from behind. A couple grumbled about him standing in the flow of foot traffic, but he couldn't do anything except helplessly look up at the facade of the Catholic Center, its exterior gleaming golden in the sunshine. He searched for his rosary, but the beads slipped from numb fingers to clatter on the pavement. He looked down at them.

Finding the gumption to pick them up or find comfort from their symbolism deserted him as he looked at the building where he'd spent countless hours of his on-campus life socializing or worshiping. It felt hollow now. That part of him was cold. God had abandoned him that night.

Emotionally spent, he turned away, leaving the beads behind on the sidewalk but had only taken a few steps when a warm-cider-on-a-cold-night voice stopped him in his tracks. He turned to glance back.

“You dropped this,” the man said. Long, elegant fingers held out the beads in offering. The man's cupid-bow mouth quirked a little at the corners, accentuating the dimple in his chin.

“Thanks,” Steve muttered and accepted the strand of beads.

A moment of silence passed.

“Are you okay?” Something edged the man's accent.

In a rare moment of bluntness, Steve responded, “No.”

“Want me to call someone for you?”

“There's no one to call.”

The stranger's expression remained impassive. There was no warmth to lighten the frigid wastes of his eyes. He was an iceberg, ten percent visible and ninety percent covered in murky waters. 

Finally, the man said, “Let me buy you a cup of coffee. I would feel responsible if you walked into oncoming traffic while lost in a daze. My name is James.”

“Steve.”

And really, he shouldn't. Allowing a stranger to buy him coffee for no other reason than because the man had wanted to return his rosary? It was the height of taking advantage, but at present, Steve felt the emptiness crawling, slithering under his skin like worms ready to consume him. He was the Rock Biter in _The Never Ending Story. 'The Nothing will be here any minute. I will just sit here and let it take me away, too. They look like good, strong hands, don't they?'_

Finally, Steve nodded. “I'd like that.”

James tried for a smile that barely reached his eyes, and Steve had a thought, that here was a man who could understand the feeling of being buried alive. It was the stagnation of being unable to find the motivation to feel anything beyond the moment. It was the choking suffocation of knowing you were different, that you were intrinsically wrong but unable to really pretend that you were right.

Something connected between them at that moment. There was a glimmering lifeline, a delicate filament, stretching between them that brought the realization that Steve wasn't alone. He wasn't the only person stuck as a two dimensional figure living in a background cel layer while the rest of the world existed in the character layers and animation layers.

They went down to Sullivan Street to sit in the window bench at Third Rail Coffee where the autumn sun streamed through the plate glass and warmed them. There was no real need to speak, so they quietly sipped their coffee and listened to the atmosphere inside the small shop. More students poured in as afternoon traffic picked up, causing Steve to tense, but James somehow knew to switch Steve seats so that Steve was pressed into the corner and his companion exposed to the foot traffic.

Slowly, the tension eased, melted away by the comforting scent of coffee and the warm body next to him who wasn't pressing for anything more than shared company.

After a while, James broached conversation, asking, “You're a student?”

“Last semester for a BFA in studio art with a minor in digital art and design.” He floundered after realizing he should say something or ask a question. “You?”

“No, I dance for the NYCB and teach at the SAB.”

“I have no idea what you just said except that you dance.”

James ducked his head. “Sorry. The New York City Ballet and the School of American Ballet.”

“That's a big deal.”

“So they tell me. Relocating was very dear, but I am myself now.”

A beat of silence passed.

James continued, “That wasn't right. Sometimes English is still hard.”

Another beat of silence.

“Can you say me how--” Frustrated, James set his ceramic cup on the pedestal table.

Steve attempted to paste a patient and supportive expression on his face.

James continued, “Relocating was very expensive, but I'm glad now to have done so.”

“Your accent--”

“Russian,” James answered.

“So you were trained in--”

“The Vaganova Academy in Saint Petersburg city.”

“Just FYI, we would say 'in the city of Saint Petersburg.'”

Quiet descended between them, but it wasn't the awkward sort; it was the quiet of two people who preferred watching the world move around them, the stationary backdrop cels content to observe the whirl of activity of the higher layers of animation. There wasn't any pressure to speak or entertain his companion which he found incredibly relaxing.

Another few minutes passed before James spoke again. “You're an artist, then.”

“Yeah, I have an internship at Avengers Media. It's a start-up publishing company. I work in their art department. I lucked into one of the few paid internships available.”

Silence came again as they sipped their coffees and watched a pair of hipster girls order teas and claim a nearby window seat. Steve liked to think they were sisters catching up in between a break in their classes to discuss the upcoming vow renewal ceremony for their parents. His guess proved completely wrong when said ladies kissed on the mouth.

“There is a position open in our design department if you're looking for more work.” His companion's words were much more careful now, his speech slow but precise.

“Thanks. I'll keep that in mind.”

They went back to watching the flow of patrons.

Silence stretched.

James shifted on the bench and glanced at his watch.

Steve wanted to say something, to reassure the man that he could go whenever he liked, but every time he drew breath to speak, the words died on his lips. Some part of him didn't want to break the interlude and force his worn body back out onto a busy sidewalk. Just another few minutes, and he would go.

Seeing a woman with a stroller trundle down the road and knock into a hapless pedestrian made him speak again. “It's a pretty how town.”

James cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

“E.E. Cummings. Anyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so flowing many bells down). Spring, summer, autumn, winter. He sang his didn't he danced his did. Women and men (both little and small) cared for anyone not at all. They sowed their isn't they reaped their same. Sun, moon, stars, rain.”

“That... Makes no sense.”

He smiled for the first time since meeting James. “Yeah, Cummings is pretty weird, but he's my favorite poet. I like that he doesn't conform to the standards of poetry.”

They were quiet again for several, comfortable minutes.

His companion finally said, “I'd like to give you my number. Would that be too forward?”

“Not at all. I'd like that.”

They exchanged numbers, and Steve saved the new contact information into his phone as “Ballerina James.” He finished the dredges of his coffee. “Thank you, for stopping me on the street and for the coffee. I wasn't expecting anyone to--” The word he was looking for became lost, so he made a general hand-motion to somehow express that he hadn't expect anyone to see him.

“Sometimes it helps to be near a warm body. I'm glad to have made you normal.” The other man cringed again. “Forgive, please. I usually speak English freely—fluently. It gets worse when I'm tired. I meant to say 'I'm glad to have made you feel better.'”

“Thanks, and you don't have to apologize for your language skills. You're doing a much better job with English than I would be with Russian.” He managed a slight smile. “I should be going, though.”

“Call me if you'd like to have coffee again.”

“I will.”

Steve emerged from the cafe just ahead of his companion, glanced back once as the man waved farewell, watched him move the opposite direction, and then walked down to St. Joseph's Church on Washington Place. He felt far more centered after his time with James than he had before.

No one was about when he entered through the bright beacon of the red door, so he slid into a pew and tried to find some relief, some comfort in the rosary beads between his fingers. The ritual of prayers, the Our Fathers, the Hail Marys, announcing the mystery, helped him find a certain level of calm despite his earlier misgivings. He finished by kissing the crucifix of his great-grandmother's beads.

The calm amidst his storm didn't last upon entering the apartment he shared with Clint that evening. He dropped his bag by the sofa where he intended to do tomorrow's class readings and would have sat if not for seeing Clint come to the kitchen door, arms crossed, a spatula clutched in one hand.

Clint's voice, slurred and louder than normal, gave away the lack of hearing aids. “You're late.”

Steve signed in return. _“You're not my mother, Clint.”_ Rather than spelling out the man's name, he used Clint's name sign, one fist extended, the fingers of the other hand pulling back on a bow string.

 _“I walked in on you trying to cut into your femoral artery, Steve.”_ Steve's name sign involved bumping two fists together and swooping open fists in the air, the sign for 'mountain.' _“What did I say when I agreed not to tell the paramedics you were trying to kill yourself?”_

Steve's shoulders slipped. “That I had to check in regularly.”

_“I won't sit here worrying my ass off that you've thrown yourself in front of a bus.” >_

__“I wouldn't.”_ _

_Clint raised one eyebrow to express his doubt._

__“I wouldn't ask some poor city bus driver to live the rest of their life with the burden that they'd hit and killed someone.”_ _

__“Point stands. You check in when you're going to be late. Now take your insulin and wash up for dinner. We're having tacos.”_ _

_Steve thought of protesting, instantly balked at the idea of anyone ordering him around, which did nothing for the stubborn streak bringing out the bullheaded tilt of his jaw. A refusal perched at the tip of his tongue, but one piercing look from his roommate's normally bland expression put him into motion. The insulin injection went in smoothly and almost instantly made him feel more stable._

__“And clean your room before we get ants.”_ _


	2. Brisé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James struggles to feel close to people while Steve's decent day turns into a living nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Information on trigger warnings in the end notes.

James closed his eyes and leaned back to meet the forward thrust of Alex's cock. Skin slapped against skin. His boyfriend grunted. The weight of the other man's chest pressed down onto his back. A breathy voice, thick with arousal and sharp with focus, called him 'sweet boy,' never mind that James was almost six years Alex's senior. In return, he squeezed his ass around his lover's penis to encourage his release but didn't bother chasing his own.

His own erection had flagged some time ago, diminished by the remembrance of Alex buried balls deep inside Brock Rumlow, of Alex's strong voice calling someone else 'baby' in the midst of his release, so he focused instead on the expensive bedspread, the sound of rain pattering against the window, the lingering scent of the chocolate chip muffins Alex had baked him, muffins he couldn't eat with his strict diet but had forced himself to nibble on in order to please his boyfriend.

He thought about the upcoming program and the story synopsis Mrs. Jarvis had emailed him the week before in order to prepare his audition solo. He thought about the man in the story, a man who was known only as the Winter Soldier. He thought about Steve, that haunted, empty look in Steve's eyes when he'd left his rosary laying on the pavement like the fallen bones of a giant. He thought about Russia and his sister, Rivka, working her ass off toward a medical degree after starting her education late so she could go home to Mother Russia and bring quality healthcare to the wastes of Siberia.

He thought about himself.

Weight lifted from his back, and he automatically rolled onto his side in order to snuggle up against Alex's solid body after his boyfriend disposed of the condom.

“Here, let me finish you with my hand,” the other man murmured.

“You don't have to; I'm normal.” James cringed. “I'm fine.”

His boyfriend chuckled. “You've been here going on four years, and you still have trouble with the most basic things in English. That's adorable.”

James pressed his face into the other man's chest to hide the sting from the unintended barb. Messing up wasn't meant to be adorable. It meant he wasn't trying hard enough to blend in with his adopted citizens, a thing made harder by the roadblocks of an anti-Russian immigration officer and the global paranoia surrounding increasing terror attacks. In short, he didn't want to be adorable. He wanted to be indistinguishable from a natural-born American.

After a scant few moments, Alex pulled away to roll to his feet and pad into the bathroom where he took a piss and cleaned himself up, leaving James to stew in the post-coital anxiety of failing to sexually perform in the same manner he'd performed before the infidelities. He didn't know why his thoughts were stuck at that point in time when he wanted desperately to forget and move on, to be happy with Alex again. A soft huff of frustration punched from his lungs, and he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his ass tender from the reaming.

“Are we still going to the party at Pike?” Pike was Alex's fraternity at the university, known more officially as Pi Kappa Alpha, and James was not looking forward to an evening spent surrounded by a horde of drunken athletes.

“No, actually,” Alex responded over the sound of his urination. A few moments later, after washing up, he came to stand in the doorway, shoulder propped against the jamb. “We're going to a party with the team.” A beat of silence followed. “To celebrate our win.” Another beat of silence. “You know, when the Violets defeated Emory.” A final beat of silence. “You didn't even know we won, did you?”

He cringed. “There was a lot going on last week. I apologize.”

“Apologize?” barked the other man. “We are way beyond the apology stage. I go to the trouble of making you muffins. I make sure I'm home when you get in from class. I massage your legs and feet when they're bothering you, and you have zero interest in what's going on in my life?”

“I can't even eat the muffins,” he suddenly exploded. “You would know that if you ever paid attention to the things I say to you. Just like when you take me to Carmine's. How I love pasta but cannot have because of strict diet.” His Russian thickened.

“You're always on a strict diet,” the other man shouted.

“It's my job.”

“And soccer is my job.”

James scoffed. “You are the captain of a Division III team that hasn't won a championship game since two thousand seven. That is different from ballet being my career.” He knew the moment the words flew out it was the worst thing he could have said.

His boyfriend shut down, expression snapping closed.

“I--” He reached toward the other man. “That was cruel of me.”

“Yes,” agreed Alex. “It was. Did you even enjoy yourself tonight?” The man made a gesture toward their bed. “You weren't here with me when we fucked. Did you just grit your teeth and get through it? You aren't here, James.” He moved his hand toward the luggage stacked in the corner.

He greeted the accusation with a squawk, but before he could retort, their upstairs neighbor thumped on the ceiling to let them know to keep it down. One of the better apartment buildings in Flatiron, and they couldn't even have a good argument without disrupting their neighbors.

A muscle in Alex's jaw twitched. He couldn't hide the instant hurt quickly enough. “Fuck. I can't do this with you tonight. I love you. What happened between Jazz, Brock, and me doesn't change that. Now, I'm going to the party for what was our biggest win of the season. You can do what you want.”

James lurched closer to put his hands on Alex's waist. “No. I love you, too, and I want to go. Please forgive me, little star. I should do better by you. I should. Let me go with you, show you off, so the world knows you're my pride and joy.”

They took James' car so he could get home at a decent hour to be alert for his teaching class the next day and parked on the street some distance from a large Greek revival with an expansive front lawn and rear garden. A plethora of cars were already parked outside, filling the driveway and spilling onto the residential street. Loud music thrummed from inside with a heavy bass. Men and women loitered in the front yard holding red solo cups filled with beer.

People cheered upon Alex's arrival. At some point, cups of beer materialized in their hands. James couldn't personally stand beer. The sour taste would cling to his tongue for days, but one could hardly refuse to drink what one was given and nursed it for the next hour.

He stood nearby while Alex engaged in conversation when a group of men approached. The largest caught Alex around the waist and lifted him from his feet with a shouted greeting. It was only then, at close range, that he noticed the gold pins adorning the newcomers' collars. A skull rested atop six tentacles. The symbol wasn't foreign to him. He'd seen Alex wearing the same several times.

“Guys, you remember my boyfriend, James, right? This is Victor Creed, Mortimer Toynbee, Sebastian Shaw, Justin Hammer, and Sergei Kravinoff. They're the most important parts of my team. We wouldn't be where we are without them.”

“Hello.” He shook each man's hand. Some he had known prior to the introduction. Victor and Morty sometimes had dinner with them or spent time in their apartment. The rest were strangers.

They ignored him for the most part, choosing instead to relive the glory moments from their most recent game. Watching them together was interesting enough. One could tell they were a team and could see the hierarchy of the group just from watching their interactions. They all deferred to Alex, but when Alex was speaking with someone else, Victor Creed became their de facto leader.

A couple hours later, a door opened upstairs and a man came out to stand at the top of the grand staircase. Everyone quieted without needing to be told. Silence fell over the gathering. Party goers looked up at the newcomer with a sense of awe, and as one, the people wearing gold pins moved to the forefront and went down on their knees.

“Who is?” James' voice thickened with Russian.

The woman standing next to him, her hair dyed a vibrant green, offered him a shocked expression. “That is Johann Schmidt. He's the head coach of the Violet's soccer team.”

“My children,” Johann began. “Tonight we celebrate your victory. To our victorious sons.” He raised a champagne flute overhead.

Other party goers did likewise with their bottles of beer or their solo cups filled from a plethora of kegs. A chant lifted from the mass. It began low but swelled into a thunderous sound that filled the cavernous foyer of the Greek revival. The boom of it rattled James' body.

After a moment, the place quieted again, and all turned their eyes toward Schmidt, who downed the remainder of his champagne and said in an unassuming sort of voice, “Hail Hydra.”

Moments later, he was gone, and the party went back into full swing, leaving James feeling off-kilter. There had been something religious about that experience, the same sense of awe and worship found in a church. Dread slithered down his spine to pool in his stomach. Johann Schmidt frightened him.

Alex returned later, snaking an arm around his waist. “Are you having a good time?”

His response was automatic. “Да.” He cringed over his mistake. “Yes.”

“Yeah,” corrected his boyfriend.

He tested the word. “Yeah.”

“I'm going to hang out with the guys for a while. You can stay and mingle if you want, or you can go home. I'll catch a ride tomorrow morning with one of the guys.”

“If you like.”

“Wait. Here.” Alex caught him before he could retreat and removed something from his pocket, moving to fix what he didn't doubt was one of those gold pins to his collar. “No one will bother you while you're wearing our motto. Drive safe when you go home.” His boyfriend kissed his cheek.

“Of course. I'll see you in the morning.”

He watched Alex leave. Victor stood nearby, arm thrown around the waist of a woman who'd had one too many beers and could barely stay on her feet. That, ultimately, was what prompted him to catch his boyfriend's arm. “Watch her. She's too drunk to consent. Do not let them pressure her, yes?”

That prompted his boyfriend to chuckle. “James. Sweet boy, Victor's taking her home to make sure she gets there safely. I love you to pieces for how much you care about others, though.”

They kissed before Alex hurried off and James went back to the car. A couple people stopped him along the way to announce “Hail Hydra.” Once in the car, he looked at himself in the rear view, at the little gold pin adorning his collar and didn't know whether he should be honored to have been accepted as part of Alex's group or if he felt a strange sort of disgust at the religiosity of the whole thing.

As a good Russian, he had been brought up Russian Orthodox and could remember spending mornings and nights at temple. That had all changed upon realizing he was gay, a situation that was forbidden in orthodoxy. Separating himself from a system that had once brought him comfort had been harder than telling his parents. His parents had simply shrugged and said it was “none of our business who you put your dick in, and please remember to use condoms, and if he breaks your heart, we break his dick.”

Only after having his eyes opened to the contradictions and dogma of the church had he realized how toxic religion could be. He still missed the good parts, gathering with a group of like-minded people who shared similar values and having a community to rely on in times of trouble. He remembered fondly being able to go to Father Anton with all manner of teenage horrors. Father Anton's patience had known no boundaries. 

After arriving home, James spent the night, Ivan curled next to his hip, browsing the internet for snippets of inspiration to go on the unfinished board nearby. It would be his inspiration board for the upcoming production, a place to put various bits that helped him feel closer to the character. It would be an invaluable tool when choreographing his solo.

Like internet surfers worldwide, he wound up lost in cyberspace, and before he knew it, he was neck-deep in cat videos and reading articles reporting on the off-campus rape of the NYU student. He desperately needed said cat videos to overcome the mass of vitriol leveled at the hapless victim up to and including accusations of lying about the rape or deserving it for being drunk at the party.

According to reports from campus police, the victim had been seen stumbling around the Pi Eta Chi Chi House after five too many beers. Someone witnessed him leaving on the arm of another guy, and no one had thought anything amiss until another student had discovered the man passed out in the alley and covered in blood and bruises. The hospital had refused questions by reporters for more details, but a nurse had unofficially leaked that a rape kit had been completed.

An astrophysics degree wasn't necessary to divine what the response to the attack would be given similar headlines involving sports stars and the women they had violated while their victims had been drunk. Just recently, a huge uproar had followed the case of the Stanford swim star who had raped an unconscious woman behind a dumpster at a party only to receive a six month sentence.

It was horrifying that someone could violate another person and receive such a light sentence. Nothing could detract from the awfulness of such a miscarriage of justice. The same thing happening to a man? The response of rape apologists was even more brutal. 

Somewhere out there was a deeply traumatized man who'd been violated once by a rapists, twice by Fox News, and thrice by hordes of under-evolved, armchair sensationalists. He felt sorry for that guy and would have been tempted to crawl under a rock if he were him. Thankfully, the guy's name hadn't been released by news sources. If that happened, he might as well move to the moon.

It was well after midnight before he removed his reading glasses and made ready for bed. Ivan went to sleep curled up on the pillow right next to James' face, the soft motor of his purr lulling him asleep.

***

The class he taught the next morning was frustrating. He worked with a group of hot shot preteens who were just old enough to believe they knew everything about dancing and resented having to take direction. Keeping them focused was nearly impossible, so by the time he made it to the company class to stretch, he was inches away from snapping at people, a fact that wasn't helped by watching Leo and Pietro run through their own choreography like boneless fairies.

It made him conscious of his own body, and he watched himself in the mirrors, taking in the thickness of his thighs and the breadth of his shoulders. The pumpkin-colored leotard he'd chosen did nothing to mask how different his body was from those around him. If they were sleek Corvettes, he was a Suburban. If their features were elfin, his were brutish.

He scowled at himself in the mirror.

“Think less. It is bad for your health,” Natalia commented. She was leaning against the door jamb watching him, arms folded across her chest.

“Your mama.”

She scoffed. “Do not dare insult my mother, Yashka.” She finally approached. “I tease. Insult my mother. I know this mirror better than I know who birthed me.”

A little hum escaped in response.

“Something distracts you this morning.”

“Just thinking about my audition.”

Her expectant gaze prompted him to continue.

“Perhaps I should voluntarily turn down the role, allow Pietro and Leonid to fight between them.”

“Is that what you--”

He kept talking over her. “Either would be good choice for lead. They have earned--”

She abruptly covered his mouth with a palm to silence him. “What do you want?”

Words flooded his mouth but refused to push past his lips. He couldn't vocalize what he really wanted, that he hoped to one day stop feeling so cold inside, that sustaining the ambition and drive necessary to perform in the lead position required more gumption than he had on any given day. Truth was it didn't matter what he wanted; it only mattered of what his mind and body were capable.

His glance drifted back to Leonid, who strutted away from the barre looking dainty as stretched sugar.

“Ignore him.” Natalia leaned back against the mirror. “He courts favor with Roberto Bolle over at ABT. They tour more than us. Leonid's time may be limited here, and Pietro is much too young to carry a role like this.”

“Speak your point.”

“My point, Yakov, is that you are the only one capable of leading this particular ballet, and if you give up on yourself, I will personally send vultures to pluck out your eyes.”

A brow rose.

“James.” Her voice softened. “Yashka, you deserve this. Let me help you.”

Mrs. Jarvis' arrival abruptly ended their conversation, and he was grateful for the reprieve, grateful to sink into the choreography, into the swell of music, and escape Natalia's pressure. It also afforded him time to consider her offer. There, buried beneath the ice and snow of Lyovikha, he could just hear that buried part of himself shouting to be heard. Its voice was filled with want. He wanted the lead.

So he threw himself into learning the daily choreography that mixed elements of classical ballet with moves inspired by martial arts. They were asked to bend their bodies in new and unique ways, in lines that stretched their spines and bobbed their bodies in the air like floats attached to fishing wire. The steps compressed their ankles and calves to send them bouncing upward again only to land in a deep plié that made them look like crabs skittering ashore to sun themselves.

James had always been good at learning choreography, so he spent the last half hour working individually with other dancers to help them master the days steps. It surprised him when Pietro greeted him with a relieved expression. The gratitude for his help was something he either hadn't seen before or hadn't paid attention to.

By the time class disbanded that afternoon, he was drenched in sweat. Running into Steve—almost quite literally—while his feet ached and his muscles quivered from abuse was not how he imagined seeing the man again. He stopped just in time to avoid a collision.

The other man's reaction seemed overwrought. He backpedaled into a wall and flattened a palm against James' chest to ward him away. That barrel of a chest heaved like bellows.

“Steve?”

Traces of panic disappeared from Steve's eyes in a flash, replaced by wariness and then by a sheepish look. “Sorry. You startled me is all.”

“I did not expect to see you here.”

“Oh. Um. I sort of got an interview for that job you tipped me off about. Someone from HR called and scheduled a meeting in the atrium building? I'm not quite sure where that is.”

“You are on wrong part of campus. I show you.”

He almost missed the way Steve's glance traveled over him. His leotard left little to the imagination, but he wasn't expecting the blush staining his new friend's cheeks. Red kissed Steve's ears.

Being checked out wasn't unusual. He objectively knew he was an attractive man, but he hadn't felt what one might call sexy in a long time, not since discovering Alex's infidelity at least. What surprised him, then, wasn't that Steve looked; it was the sudden rush of pleasure it caused. He liked that Steve enjoyed what he saw. Naturally, he recoiled from it moments later. Treating Alex the way Alex had treated him wasn't the solution. Two wrongs didn't make a right. 

“Let me put on something more appropriate.”

His heart drummed a staccato rhythm while he strode into the safety of the locker room. A sudden jolt of anxiety cracked the ice around his heart, so he closed both eyes and counted to ten in an attempt to calm the ripples disrupting his mind. Getting stressed over someone checking him out was silly.

What was sillier was the embarrassingly long time it took to convince his stupid heart of the same thing. It took long enough for Pietro to finish showering and emerge from the stall to give him a cheery wave. James shut his locker door and scuttled into a changing stall without responding. 

To Steve's credit, the man didn't so much as blink when James emerged wearing a gingham wrap skirt that went down to his ankles and a zip-up hoodie. Baggy, comfortable clothes after a long day spent abusing his muscles was necessary self-care as far as James was concerned. Rolling the sleeves of Alex's hoodie up to his forearms, he started silently from the studio.

They emerged from the Samuel and Rose Building where the company held their rehearsal space into the crisp autumn air. Julliard's hallowed halls, perched comfortably next door, were dressed up in Halloween colors to celebrate the season.

“God, is it already the second of October?” Steve asked. “Of course, in my house, we refer to it as the second of Halloween.”

The comment surprised a chuckle out of James. “Big Halloween fan?”

“Yeah. My ma always does the house up right every year.” Whatever Steve was thinking, it gave him a fond smile. “We used to have these life-size skeletons in the front yard, and every week, she'd pose them in some new scenario. She went too far one year with a Rocky Horror Picture Show theme, and the neighborhood committee banned us from using them again.”

Picturing it startled another laugh from him. “People my age in Russia celebrate All Saint's Day, but the older generation, they watch in horror. Russian Orthodoxy preaches that it is evil carnival that will doom young souls for eternity. My mamochka, though, doesn't hold with church teaching anymore.”

They paused outside, and Steve moved his hand toward the cafeteria. “Let me repay the favor?”

Hot coffees in hand, they crossed the street into the Lincoln Center Plaza. Rising up like Roman sentinels were the Metropolitan Opera House, the David H. Koch Theater where the NYCB performed, and David Geffen Hall. Smack in the center of the plaza was a fountain spewing water skyward. 

They lingered there, taking a seat on the raised obsidian bench, to drink their coffee. “Do you know, this actually isn't my first time here.”

He turned his attention to Steve to encourage him to continue.

“Yeah, I actually took some classes at the ballet school when I was younger.” Steve rubbed the back of his neck but didn't seem interested in making eye contact.

A questioning brow arched.

“My ma thought getting me into physical activities would help with my health, and ballet was about a thousand times safer than sports. Turned out that ballet wasn't for me, but it did inspire me to take ballroom classes. Even competed for a while on the junior level. Ma and my nana were insufferable. Always taking pictures and gushing over me in my competition uniform.”

James realized there was something different about Steve today. He was much more talkative and personable. It built something warm between them he hadn't expected.

“Were you always interested in ballet?”

He thought for a moment. “Sports were a big part of Soviet Russia. It was a way of connecting people in a common venture, so they are also a big part of Russia today. When you have an affinity for physical pursuits, you either become a professional athlete, an Olympic level competitor, or a ballet dancer. My mamochka-- Sorry. Forgive, please.”

“Hey, don't apologize. I sound incredibly Brooklyn because I was born and raised there. Same with you and Russia. You don't have to stop being Russian just because you're an American citizen now.”

That reaction startled him in a pleasant sort of way, what with Alex's constant sniping whenever the accent got thicker. His gaze lifted. They made eye contact for just about the first damn time since meeting on that sidewalk. Steve's eyes were incredibly blue. 

“What were you going to say?” prompted Steve.

“Ours parents took us from where we were born to Saint Petersburg city when I was six. There was a dance school closer to our apartment than an athletic facility, so they enrolled me in ballet.”

“Our?”

“My sister and I. She attends Columbia in their physicians program.”

“Wow. Your family's either incredibly gifted or incredibly ambitious. One kid working on becoming a doctor and the other a renowned dancer with the New York ballet.”

The corners of his mouth lifted. “I wouldn't go so far as to call myself renowned.”

“Are you kidding? You're a soloist for one of the most respected ballet companies on the globe.”

Praise was always hit or miss, so he silenced the urge to downplay his achievements by taking another sip of coffee, prompting a lull in their conversation. Visitors flocked into Lincoln Center Plaza and moved around them. A few stopped to double-take over what he was wearing. One man in particular shied his child away while muttering about men in dresses setting bad examples for children.

He did not expect Steve to shout, “World's sliding into global catastrophe, widespread starvation in war-torn countries, a super-lying-fragile-racist-whiny-braggadocious elected to be commander in chief, and you're worried about a hot guy in a skirt? Priorities, douche-nozzle. Reconsider them.”

Said douche-nozzle clearly had not been expecting to be called out, so he scurried into the Met. 

James couldn't help chortling. “You did not have to do that.”

“Somebody's gotta. There's too many people in this country who think they got the right to tell others how to live their lives. Somehow, they forget that freedom also means the freedom to wear what you want and fuck who you want or go in a bathroom you're comfortable going in.”

A corner of his mouth quirked upon realizing he hadn't seen Steve so animated before. Some tiny zing slithered into his gut, and before he knew what he was doing, he looped his arm through Steve's to give it a squeeze. He had to remind himself again how inappropriate it was given his relationship status. 

Steve's stomach gurgled. The man's face and ears turned red again, and he dug through a pocket to produce some candy, offering James one while he unwrapped a Starburst and popped it in his mouth. The tremor in his hand was noticeable and concerning.

“Are you unwell?” he asked while unwrapping the Starbust Steve had given him.

Steve seemed confused before understanding dawned. “Diabetes. I can't be hungry for any length of time or my blood sugar will start to crash. God, sometimes I get sick of worrying about crap like that, you know? Anyway, your mamchaka--”

Something terribly fond curled up against the iceberg in his chest. “Mamochka. Мать is the formal way. Mama is the most common. Mamochka is tender. Private.”

Steve repeated it slowly until it sounded more familiar on his tongue. “Is your mamochka here or in Russia?” He inflected the end of the word as a way of asking if he'd said it correctly.

Pleasure pulled warmth into James' smile. “Batya and Mamochka came to America with us. Rather, they brought us to America when Batya found better work here, but they retired in California.”

“My ma still lives in Brooklyn in the same house I grew up in.”

They continued chatting, a surprising easiness between them, until it was time for Steve to make his interview. James enjoyed the rest of the walk, and by the time they reached the corner and he pointed out the appropriate building, he was sad to be rid of the company.

Suddenly remembering something, James called out, “If freckles were lovely and day was night and measles were nice and a lie warn't a lie, life would be a delight-- But things couldn't go right for in such a sad plight I wouldn't be I.”

Steve stopped near the crosswalk and turned to face him, a huge smile lighting up his visage. “You looked up E.E. Cummings!”

He couldn't help the responding smile and gave Steve a mock salute. The pleasantness of their companionship traveled with him back to the studio after Steve disappeared inside the Rubenstein Atrium building. It made him walk lightly, like he hadn't done for months.

A sudden thought struck him as he climbed the stairs to the rehearsal space. That day he'd accompanied Alex to the victory party. Alex had known he hadn't been into sex that night. He had said as much. His boyfriend had known he hadn't been enjoying himself but had carried on anyway.

***

“Today's topic: Political correctness,” Tony said from the lectern, face ashen and sporting a pair of dark sunglasses. He leaned heavily against the podium for support.

Billy, sitting two rows in front of Steve and a few seats down, rolled his eyes and fired back, “Political correctness is just another word for common decency and respect.”

Stark took a gulp from a bottle of green tea before continuing, “But should we really be policing the way people speak?”

“The only people who argue against common decency are bullies who want to be able to spew their vitriol without any societal backlash.”

Another student, Helmut Zemo, interrupted the pas de deux to say, “Language only has the power we give it. If sensitive people would thicken their hides and stop taking offense at something as ethereal as language, we wouldn't need to have these arguments.”

Billy responded, “Why is it always the burden of the sensitive to change so that the callous can continue not contributing to making the glut of humanity work in harmony?”

“Because you are the only one who has real power over you. You can't silence the outspoken. You can only change yourself to live more comfortably amongst the outspoken. Power goes to those who are strongest. We owe you nothing, least of all the right to curtail our self-expression.”

“That's what peer pressure's for. You might have the apathy to treat others as callously as you want, but when society bands together, we're stronger. That's why there's all this backlash against bullying. Alone, the bullies've got power, but we can shame you into doing what's decent.”

Steve allowed the ongoing discussion to fade into the background in favor of doodling in the margin of his notebook. Today was a decent day. He'd woken with an appetite, had taken his various medications without a fuss, and hadn't had a panic attack when someone had bumped into him on the subway. It might have something to do with running into James at the Lincoln Center.

There was something about James that made him feel more content, like someone understood him, like they saw him for what he was: a shadow trapped between living and dying. Meeting another shadow who lived on the bottom animation cel made him feel like he wasn't alone in the world. It was nice.

Thoughts of his new friend would have happily taken up the rest of class period if Clint hadn't jabbed him in the ribs. He grunted and dragged his mind back to the present. Teddy was on his feet between Helmut—he liked to claim his family was descended from a long line of German barons—and Billy. The three of them looked like they were about to have a smack down in the middle of class.

“Pipe down everybody,” Stark squawked. “We're just having a friendly discussion here. Fucking Twitter Syndrome. Nobody can disagree with their inside voices anymore.” The professor snapped open the cap of a Tylenol bottle and popped two with a swig of green tea. “Rogers, we all know you've got something to say about our discussion.”

“No, I'm good.”

Stark grabbed his chest to mime a coronary event. “Come on. Normally I can't shut you up.”

“What can I say? I'm trying to cut the stress out of my life.”

“Spoil sport. But really...”

He didn't know when it had become his job to redirect the conversation, but Steve pointedly remained seated when he said, “This is one of those no-win situations. Whatever you do, someone's gonna lose out. Either Douche-nozzle loses the right express themself or the other person loses the right to not be harassed by caustic language. The thing is, though, that policing language wouldn't stop the bullies.

Personally, I think policing language is a slippery slope, and someone is always gonna be offended, so where do you draw the line? I automatically think less of people who have to resort to inflammatory language to express themselves, but that doesn't mean I have the right to silence others.”

Billy shot him a wounded look.

Stark looked like he was ready to fall over, although it was tough to tell if that was from the shock of Steve's stance or the epic hangover he nursed. Professor Banner rolled into the auditorium, signaling the end of class, so Stark dismissed them in order to pack up his things.

Clint and Steve stopped to get coffee on the way out. The crowds didn't feel so overwhelming. Standing in line for their java fix didn't herald the usual anxiety nor the sensation of being exposed. He took it as a sign that his decision not to see a therapist was the right one, because he could absolutely recover on his own without exposing all the raw nerves to a judgmental stranger.

That feeling floated with him all the way to the gym they frequented and onto the eliptical where he warmed up his muscles for weight training. Looking at himself in the mirror, at the blonde hair badly in need of a wash and a cut and the scruffy beard, gave him the inspiration that he should probably see a barber soon. His ma would string him up by his toenails for allowing himself to appear in public looking more like a Canadian lumber jack than a Brooklyn-born choir boy.

A little smile softened his face, and he thought back to James' penchant for describing his emotional state as normal. Normal. Not twisted up inside. Not a live wire exposed to water. Not a hollow shell. James always cringed and treated the saying like it was a bad thing, but there was nothing bad about it. It was one of those little idiosyncrasies about the man he was quickly coming to adore.

Realizing that, having a good day, his brief flash of normalcy? It just made it all the harder when his world collapsed again. His smile turned arctic. His whole body felt balanced on a knife edge as he focused on the reflection of two men standing behind him next to a line of stair-steppers.

Clint must have noticed the sudden shift in the atmosphere, as the machine next to him stilled, allowing his roommate to lean over to speak. “Steve? What's wrong?”

“I have to go.” He swallowed hard. “I have to get out of here. I have to go.” His voice became thready, a wisp of sound. “I have to get out of here. I have to go.” All he could do was repeat the phrases, fingers clenched tightly on the machine's grips until they groaned under his power.

He couldn't take his eyes away from them, one with a weak chin and olive skin marked from chicken pox, the other incredibly wide and muscular. They laughed over an inside joke. The broader man grabbed a towel from his gym bag to mop the sweat from his face. A small pin glinted from the collar of his drenched polo: a skull supported by six tentacles.

“Steve, you're safe, buddy. I need you to breathe and unclench your hands. Come on. Don't make me get a wheelbarrow and drag your ass outta here. Let's get you some air.”

“I have to go.”

“Yeah, that's what I'm trying to do.”

Finally, his feet uprooted from their position. He stepped off the machine and hurried away, making straight toward the front door from which he burst onto the city sidewalk and ran straight into oncoming traffic. Horns blared. Tires squealed.

Nothing bled through the panic but the remembrance of hands on his body, holding him down while their ringleader unfastened his belt. Someone shouted his name from a distance. An angry motorist cursed his mother. Neither mattered as much as putting distance between himself and his attackers. 

A car slammed into him.

He hit the pavement, his skull recoiling off the asphalt.

Darkness finally brought an escape from the ever-tightening walls of his mind.

***  
Steve woke to the sound of two murmuring voices, but his head throbbed too badly to concentrate on whatever they were saying. He expected to still be on the street, surrounded by New York drivers who would more than likely skin him alive for ruining their commute time, but that was not the case. The room he cracked his eyes open to was bright and smelled faintly of cleaning products. Someone nearby coughed, and a nurse asked the patient how long they'd experienced the cough.

A hospital. He groaned and lifted his head off the thin pillow. It was the emergency ward, his cubicle given privacy only by the paper thin curtain surrounding his bed. Only then did he remember Clint racing into the street after him and shouts for someone to call nine-one-one. The too-shrill sirens had made his head split in two even as Clint had hovered over him calling him a dumb fuck and several other choice names he wouldn't be repeating to his dear mother.

Speaking of dear mothers, she scrambled over to the bedside still wearing her captain's uniform from the sixty-first precinct. No one could tell just by looking at the petite platinum blonde that her inner firecracker burned hot enough to carry her through a decorated twenty-five year career with New York's Finest, going from working as an evidence clerk to a beat cop and eventually taking over the captain position of Coney Island's precinct.

Her presence brought out his smile, and he reached up to drag his knuckles across her delicate cheekbone. “Fancy seeing you here, Judy Hopps.”

She couldn't swallow a sob and cupped his hand to pull the palm against her face. It took her a moment to find the center of her Tootsie Pop, at which point, she cuffed his shoulder. “What were you thinking running into the middle of rush hour traffic?”

“He wasn't thinking. That's the point,” Clint muttered. 

“Baby, why didn't you tell me you were raped?”

Steve's expression went cold, and if looks could kill, the razor blades shooting from his eyeballs would have shredded Clint like a block of cheese. “There was no reason to. What happened happened.”

“Baby boy, no. Did you go to the police? Was there a rape kit done? This can't just be water under the bridge. You had Clint perjure himself by telling me you were in a bar fight that night. You are in so much trouble, young man.” Her glance shot toward Clint. “No Guinness Cake for you this year.”

“Man,” whined Clint. “Rogers, I hate you.”

“Ma, there are tens of thousands of rape kits in this country that go untested. The hospital took one and blood tests to show I had liquid ecstasy in me, but what's the point? It's only making noise in the media because news outlets want the next shocking headline.”

“I'm a precinct captain. Let me pull some strings and get your kit into the right hands so we can find out who did this and prosecute them.”

Steve eased his hand away and tried to curl up in a bed he was really too large for. Nothing had felt the same since he'd grown into his heart. That was how his nana had always said it. His body had been too small for the size of his giant heart. He couldn't curl up against his ma's chest anymore and hide from the rest of the world. Not like he could hide from the demons in his head anyway.

“Stevie, talk to me,” she murmured.

“I'm not gonna get special treatment just 'cause my ma's a precinct captain. It's not fair to the other rape victims who don't have someone in law enforcement fighting in their corner.”

“And that's terribly sad for them, but I won't sit here while my baby suffers. We're gonna to find out who did this, and when we do, they're gonna wish their mothers hadn't been born.”

“No special treatment.” His voice was tighter, more resolute.

“Good Christ, why are you always so stubborn?”

Clint hummed his agreement with that particular question.

“Can we just not do this right now? My head hurts.”

“Sure,” she crooned. “You just rest now. Doctor Erskine thinks they'll release you tomorrow. You received a pretty nasty concussion, and they had to pop your hip back into its socket, so they're keeping you overnight for observation. Clint's going to attend your classes and take notes for you.”

Steve glanced toward his roommate. “Aren't you leaving to take your girl upstate for the weekend?”

“Bobbi ain't my girl, and going to your classes just means we'll leave a few hours later.”

“Clint.” There was a note of long-suffering to the way Steve spoke his best friend's name.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“You're going to spend the weekend with this girl you've been dating for six months. What do you call that if not a relationship?”

The other man dipped his head and looked at the long span of his calloused fingers. “Just means she's suffering temporary amnesia or early onset dementia. Anyhow, I'm gonna get out of here and let you rest. No more running into oncoming traffic, okay?”

Steve wanted to say more, to tell Clint how much of a catch he was and how incredibly dimwitted Bobbi would be not to see that, but he wasn't going to push anymore than he wanted Clint pushing him. Besides, he knew where his friend's insecurities came from. Clint's parents had died young, and he had been left to be shuffled around various foster homes with his older brother. When the only steady influence in a guy's life was an abusive, manipulative sibling, it was bound to scar.

It just sucked that he couldn't do anything about it short of inventing soul glue and piecing Clint back together again. Unfortunately, real life didn't work that way.

“You're being awfully quiet, Ma,” he said after resting his eyes for a few minutes.

“I'm making you an appointment with the student wellness office for counseling.”

“What?” He sat up sharply enough it made his head pound. “Ma, no.” And if he barked his sentiments with more vitriol than he intended, she would just have to forgive him.

Sarah Rogers was not about to be cowed by her son, though, and met his look with a sharp gaze of her own, lips set in a tight pucker. It was the same look that had terrorized the miscreant denizens of her post for the past twenty-five years. He knew the battle was lost just from that look.

“You have an appointment Monday morning with Sam Wilson. If I find out you don't attend, I will be displeased. You don't like me much when I'm displeased with you.”

He shrank into his bed and hunched his shoulders. “No, Ma'am.”

Consequently, Steve's weekend went pear shaped, and after being released from the hospital, he spent said weekend on the sofa surrounded by an ever-growing mound of used delivery containers and beer bottles since Clint wasn't there to pick up after him. He wallowed inside a cocoon made out of fuzzy blankets and snuggled Captain, the ratty teddy bear his ma had given him as a child when he'd been afraid of the dark. Love had worn some spots bald, and his red white, and blue costume had been mended several times, but the idea of growing out of Captain's comfort was impossible to imagine.

Clint just looked at him with that awful face that said 'I still love you but am disappointed in you' when he got home from his trip and saw the mess their living room had become. Wordlessly, his best friend spent fifteen minutes picking up all the waste before shoving Steve's legs over so he could plop down along with him to finish watching an episode of Phineas and Ferb.

Eventually, Steve stretched out and rested his head against Clint's thigh. “Ma's making me see a therapist in the morning.”

The other man carded fingers through his over-long hair despite several days worth of sweat and body oil making the golden strands lackluster. “Bobbi's my girl.”

Neither of them acknowledged the other's announcement, but something less brittle blanketed their apartment. The ease that followed allowed Steve to sleep, his head propped against his best friend's thigh, body finally relaxing into the Steve-sized divot he'd made in the sofa. He didn't dream that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sexual encounter between Alex and James could be considered non-con. James consents to the sex but doesn't feel engaged with the actual act.
> 
> Steve sees two of his attackers at the gym, and his flight instinct takes over, leading him into a minor car collision for which he is rushed to the hospital.


	3. Cabriole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve calls James in a panic only to find out his attacker is closer than he ever believed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for possible trigger warnings.

An atrocious weekend was capped off by a horrible Monday. Steve woke to a message from Avengers Media asking for a call back so they could schedule a meeting with the head of HR, Maria Hill. He logically knew that he only had so long before the company decided he was more trouble than he was worth, just figured he would have a little more time to try to find his creativity again after-- No, he understood that missing so much work and turning in generic crap would be the quickest way to having his position terminated. He didn't blame them.

So he scheduled an appointment for later that afternoon, blew off his morning classes since he knew he wouldn't be able to concentrate enough to learn anything, and spent the morning hiding in the Catholic Center to avoid Clint knowing he wasn't in class. He tried to pray in the small chapel while there. The words clogging his throat felt hollow. It meant he was damn near late for his appointment with Sam Wilson. And really, he couldn't be blamed for losing track of time while worshiping. Right?

He dragged his feet into the student health center to check in for his counseling appointment. Naturally, that meant he waited and waited and waited, head lolling to the side, feeling himself grow ever-more agitated. He was ready to walk out when a man came out to call Steve back.

Following Mr. Wilson into his office space wound Steve so tight that he laughed a little. The man's office was cluttered. Shelves of books took up almost all of one wall. Various posters advertising the VA and LGBTQIA events decorated the walls. One sad looking fern stretched its fingers toward the tiny window to soak up as much sunshine as possible. A small desk was flanked by two chairs.

“Sorry, this isn't what I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?”

“Something cleaner.” Color roared into his cheeks. “I mean less cluttered.”

“Would you be comfortable in a more sterile environment?”

“No!” Steve jumped upon realizing how acidic his comment sounded. “No, this is fine.”

“Have a seat, Mr. Rogers.”

He didn't really know what to do with himself and felt like Gulliver sitting down at a Lilliputian tea party, his body feeling massive compared to the small chair and miniscule space. In an effort to control his anxiety, he looked at the posters in more detail. Some of them were surprisingly well done.

For want of anything more mature to say, he said, “I like the art deco design and antique colors on that poster. Design has gotten so garish in many respects. The understated simplicity of that is nice.”

Mr. Wilson smiled a friendly, warm sort of smile that showed off a gap in his front teeth.

“I especially like the juxtaposition of the clean lines against the clutter of the room. It's kinda like an oasis in a desert. Allows your eyes to fix on something less messy to help you focus.”

For his part, Sam allowed him to meander through various topics of artistic and design influence for a good ten minutes without attempting to redirect his attention. Steve found that nice, that the man wasn't pushing him into a Wyatt Earp style shootout at the OK Corral. The man even contributed intelligently to the conversation and seemed to have a passing knowledge of graphic design, which was when he admitted to having made the posters as part of volunteering at the local chapter of the VA.

“Mr. Rogers, you didn't come here to talk about my poster art.”

Finally, he whispered, “I didn't want to come here at all. My ma arranged for the appointment.”

“Why don't you tell me why she thought you needed to see a counselor?”

“Um.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I sort of had a panic attack and ran into the street last week. Got hit by a car, but the damage was minimal. Really, she's making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Seems like her son being hit by a car would rattle a mother.”

“Yeah, but it was stupid anyway. I just had a bad day is all.”

Sam leaned against his desk. “Mr. Rogers--”

“Please call me Steve.”

“Steve, anything you say to me during this session falls under the heading of patient/doctor privilege. It will go no further than us. Now, because I believe in transparency, I should inform you that I'm a mandated reporter. That means that if I think you're a danger to yourself or other people, I am legally bound to report it to the appropriate authorities.”

Steve felt a knot forming in his throat. “What are therapists for, then? If a person can't come in here and speak openly to you without worrying about being committed, what's the point of this?”

“Are you trying to tell me that you're having invasive thoughts?”

“I wouldn't admit to if I was.”

“There's a difference between suicidal thoughts and being a danger to yourself.” A moment of silence passed. “Steve, I can't help you unless you're honest with me.”

Having that ultimatum prickled the skin of his palms. They turned damp with sweat, sweat he tried to wipe away on his jeans. He couldn't look at Sam, could only stare into the middle distance at the stapler on the man's desk like it was one of the Seven Wonders. Knowing Sam was looking at him, judging him, forcing him to be honest made the room feel tight and stifling.

“I have to go.”

“Steve.” Sam's voice was soft but firm. “I need you to take ten deep breaths for me.”

“I have to get out of here.”

“Let me help you, man. Take ten deep breaths.”

“I can't!” His fingers clutched the fabric of his jeans. “I can't breathe. I have to leave.”

Steve shot to his feet and bolted from the office with Sam calling after him, desperate to escape the cramped confines and the judgmental stare as the therapist waited for him to freak out. Mr. Wilson would tell the world, then, tell the world how fucked up Steve was and how he shouldn't be allowed out on the streets when he was too helpless to fight off being held down and raped.

Once he cleared the office, he damn near knocked down Teddy Altman from Ethics class while flying from the building to lose himself in campus foot traffic. Sam would consider him a danger to himself. You didn't run from a goddamn building like the unholy fires of Hell licked at your heels unless you were a danger to yourself. He didn't want to be placed under a seventy-two hour watch.

God, there were so many people around. He could feel their eyes on him, looking at him, waiting for him to make a mistake and expose his weakness. It felt like they knew. Big, strong, muscular Steve Rogers was really a helpless kitten who couldn't stop himself from being violated because he was weak. He didn't know how to roll over to protect his soft underbelly.

He didn't know how long had passed before he registered that he was crouched in an alley somewhere in the city that he didn't immediately recognize. The area was dingy. A couple of poorly dressed men came out of a nearby building and gave him a sharper version of the stink eye.

“You got a problem?” one of them demanded.

“N-no. No problem.”

“You best get to stepping, then. This's our street.”

“Yeah. Y-yeah, fine. Whatever.”

One of them snickered and muttered to the other.

Steve would never be sure just what the men said, only that they were talking about him, and he was convinced they somehow knew he was easy prey, a kid backing down from a challenge in a rough neighborhood and running home to him ma with tail tucked between legs. They knew.

He saw red.

“What did you just call me?”

“Whatchya gonna do 'bout it, pussy?”

“You got something to say to me, you say it to my face.”

He threw the first punch. Back when he'd been smaller and had more to prove, he'd been a scrappy little bastard who'd taken on the world like he was a lion instead of a chihuahua. It was so easy to fall back into that familiar pattern, so he slugged one of them and quickly found himself in too deep.

The end result was that he bloodied his knuckles on one man's teeth, who now possessed gaped smile, and drove the other thug's nuts into his abdomen with a hard blow with his knee. One of them had gotten in a few good jabs against his kidneys. Upon realizing no one was easy prey, they came to a mutual stalemate, and the men took off, leaving Steve to slump against the wall.

Standing there with his nose gushing blood and his ribs on fire, he suddenly realized he had no one to call. Clint would never let him live it down. Ma would tan his hide for taking off in the middle of the day and getting lost in his own goddamn city, although to be fair, he was more of a Brooklyn boy.

So he called the only other person on his contact list that wouldn't tattle on him. 

The phone rang three times before connecting. “Steve?” James' voice was a little winded.

“Shit, did I disturb you? I disturbed you. Sorry. I'm going to hang up and let you get back to whatever you were doing.”

“Wait.”

Steve paused.

“What's wrong? You don't sound normal—well.”

“I--” He inhaled and tried to find what he wanted to say. “I need somewhere safe to go.”

The noise in the background faded, proof James was going somewhere more private. “Tell me where you are. I'll come and get you. You can stay at my place until you've improved.”

“I don't know where I am. I freaked out at a counseling session and ran out of the building with no destination in mind. Then I got in a fight with some street thugs. I don't know where I am.” He couldn't stop the waver in his voice no matter how hard he tried.

“Take a deep breath, Steve. I will search for your GPS with your phone number. When a text message comes in asking you to agree, you need to give your permission.”

“Okay.” Steve wiped the fluid from under his nose, a mixture of blood and tears, on his sleeve. Moments later, his phone chimed an incoming message to which he gave permission.

“I have your location. Stay where you are. I come to you.”

They were mostly quiet on the phone. He listened to James' breathing and the thrum of a car engine starting followed by a blare of some sort of dark cabaret song in which a woman accused her mother of being wrong. It quieted to allow him to hear the comforting sound of James talking him through his anxiety as though he understood what it felt like to have his world collapse to the precise focus of knowing something was inherently wrong about everything.

It could have been minutes; it could have been hours before a deep red Mazda appeared at the head of the alley. The door opened. James stepped out in a pair of capri length tights and a black tank top. The outfit did little to mask the bulge of the man's groin, but Steve was only half-interested in checking him out and allowed himself to be dragged into a comforting embrace when the man reached him.

Steve didn't return the hug at first, but after a moment, his reserve evaporated, and he sagged. He reached up to fist his hands in the back of James' tank top, pressed his face into the top of the man's shoulder. The smell of sweat added a tang to a pleasant combination of the orient and woody fragrance of the man's cologne. All he really knew was that he wanted to hide there inside the arms of someone who didn't demand anything from him, not that he see a therapist, not that he get better, nothing.

“Let's get you back to my place and clean that face of yours up.”

“Did I--” He swallowed. “Did I interrupt one of your classes?”

“No, I was at weight training. Have to get these muscles somehow.”

“I was at weight training, too.” He meant to say that he'd been at training when he'd flipped out and the recent string of badness had gotten started but didn't finish the statement, just allowed his companion to take him back to the car and help him get settled in the passenger seat.

The drive away was quiet until a series of texts and calls vibrated Steve's phone. His mother's number flashed there followed quickly by Clint's. Hell, even Clint's girlfriend tried getting hold of him, or maybe it was just Clint borrowing her phone in case Steve was ignoring him.

The childish part of Steve wanted to ignore the messages. After all, if his mother hadn't bullied him into seeing a therapist, they wouldn't be in this position right now, but maturity won out. He was an adult, and as an adult it was his job not to let them worry about him. So he sent a couple of quick texts letting them know he was safe and just needed some time to get his thoughts in order.

After turning his phone off to ignore their responses, he sat in silence. James didn't pressure him to talk. The other man turned the music up enough for the ambient noise to give them something to focus on. It was a collection of indie work featuring old swing and cabaret music, the various singers helping to ease the tension his body held.

Finally, he broke the silence. “Who is this?”

“Many different artists. There are play lists on youtube. I can send you the MP3 files if you like.”

“I'd like that.”

“How did your interview go?”

“Well, I think.” His meeting with Avengers Media rose sharp and cutting in his memory. “Goddamn it!” Fingers clutched into fists. Muscles in his forearms and biceps bulged to suppress the urge to pound the dashboard, an action that would just be downright rude.

James jumped a little over the outburst but waited for Steve to speak in his own time.

“Shit. Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, James.” He buried his face in his hands. “You can pull over and let me out if you want. I think I know this area well enough to find my way home from here.”

“I'll do no such thing unless you genuinely want to get out,” the other man said in a soft voice.

Just like that. Calm. Steadfast. No demands for answers. He lifted his face from his hands and peeked at James, at the sharp line of his jaw and the beautiful arch of his ear. The man was stunning, a work of art. Whatever Steve had done to deserve meeting James was one of life's small miracles.

His heart rate slowed again.

“My boss called to request a meeting today. I think I'm about to be fired. It's no more than I deserve. S'what happens when you take off work constantly and don't turn in your best performance.”

“When is your meeting?”

“In, like, two hours.” He glanced at the time.

“My boyfriend is your size. Clean up at my place, borrow one of his suits, and I will drive you.”

He tried to swallow the lump in his throat over hearing James liked men. It meant there was a chance. Except of course there wasn't a chance. Of course some lucky bastard had snatched him up already. A guy so great would have a list of suitors a mile long.

Clearing his throat, he said, “That's very generous, but I couldn't ask you to do that. It's enough you came and rescued me.” He smiled, tilting his head against the seat. “My knight in shining Mazda.”

“Steve.” His voice was feather soft. “You might get fired at this meeting. What are the chances you won't call me again lost and bloody after?” They stopped at a stop light. James tilted his head and looked over with a light, teasing smile.

And for whatever reason, be it the combination of James' tone and expression, or just the fact that James was James, he didn't take it with any malicious intent. “Probably slim.”

“Then let me do this for my friend.”

Steve agreed. God help him, but he agreed, and the rest of the ride went by in companionable silence. They drove into the Flatiron district, at which point, he craned his neck to look up at a tall building whose sign out front marked it as The Dylan. James parked in a garage, and they walked inside an elegant foyer with a man at the reception and concierge desk, who greeted James by name.

After grabbing his mail, they hopped on an elevator that took them to an upper floor where James keyed inside a studio apartment. Two window walls met to form a corner where sunshine spilled through to paint the hardwoods a golden honey color. The studio was bright and open, and for a moment, Steve considered rolling himself across the plush rug beneath the sofa.

Sure beat the Hell out of his tiny two bedroom in Washington Heights, and he turned a stunned expression toward his host, who was busy putting the mail on a marble counter top and retrieving two bottled waters from a stainless steel fridge. He accepted the one he was offered.

“This is a beautiful apartment.”

James smiled, clearly taking pride in his home. “Dancing with the NYCB does have some benefits. It might destroy my body, but I will enjoy the fruits of my labor.”

“There's so much light.” He sipped his water and moved into the sunshine, tilting his head back to drink in the warm glow. He could imagine painting there, setting a little easel up right in the corner, the rich scent of oil paints and the comfortable hum of creativity soothing him. If he could stay right there for the rest of his life, then he stood a chance of being happy.

A sound discordant with the rest of his surroundings pulled his attention from the sunlight. The hairless cat that jumped from atop a cat tree flattened its ears and streaked past into the kitchen where it jumped onto the counter to rub itself all over his companion's face. That was perhaps the ugliest cat he'd ever seen, but he snapped a picture with his phone to preserve the cuteness for posterity.

James spoke to the cat in Russian, the sound rumbling in his chest and shooting straight down Steve's spine and into the pit of his stomach.

It wasn't the sort of interest he intended on acting upon. He was damaged goods now. Even if James weren't attached, nothing would ever come of the unwanted attraction. The attack had left him half a person, weak, damaged, and unattractive. Sometimes, he thought his skin was still infected with his attackers' touches, that if he peeled his flesh away, he would find a mass of maggots seething beneath. Shame colored his cheeks, and he looked away to take in the city.

He heard the other man approach before feeling a broad palm span his shoulder blade. “Let's get you cleaned up. Sit.” The man indicated the nearby ottoman.

Steve complied.

His companion's fingers were gentle when they tucked under his chin to tilt his head back. He didn't have anywhere to look but at James, blue against blue. No one would blame him for studying the perfect bow of those lips, the sharp corner of his jaw, the dimple in his chin. Steve's breath evened.

The enchantment shattered when James dabbed at his nose and upper lip with a damp cloth, causing Steve to wince and yowl like an angry cat. It made his companion's lips turn up at the corners.

“Big strapping man like you crying over a broken nose.”

Steve winced.

James backed off, eyes shuttering. “Did I say something wrong?”

“I--” He paused. “No, you didn't say anything wrong. Don't mind me.”

Silence returned, and for the first time, it was an uncomfortable sort of silence, filled with brittle glass and things that should be said but weren't. It had just been a stupid comment. There was no reason for Steve to make a big deal out if it, and James certainly hadn't known about the minefield he'd been stepping into by remarking on his size and ability to defend against pain.

But the damage was done. Steve allowed the other man to clean up his face and pop his nose back into proper alignment, something which brought another wince and sharp inhale. For his part, James allowed the tension to linger, and when they were done with triage, he laid out a stylish navy suit and showed him to the bathroom. Another work of luxury of course.

Warm water gushed over and around him in rivulets, soothing muscles that still ached from the accident and his inability to relax. After drying and stepping back into his used boxers—he was not wearing another man's boxers, thanks very much—he dressed. The suit was a little snug across his shoulders and biceps, the waistband a little lose, but the fit was startlingly good.

It wasn't that he was snooping. That would be rude. He was in fact looking for some deodorant—hopefully spray-on—when he opened the cabinet. Bottles of medication were lined up inside. There were muscle relaxants, anti-inflammatory prescriptions, pain medication that was still in date, and a small range of anti-anxiety and anti-depressant scripts all in the process of being used. They were all written for James Barnes.

His host made a noise on the other side of the door, followed by the thump of a cat jumping down from a high place, which prompted Steve to finally exit the bathroom with the tie hanging loose around his shoulders. He looked at James, whose smile stuttered half-way into forming, James, who stood in the bedroom area shirtless and inspecting a scratch on his arm.

The man's body was a canvas, most notably a depiction of a Russian house with its windows surrounded by filigree lattice work including elegantly carved firebirds. One of the firebird's glowing feathers had fallen onto James' hipbone where it sat, smoldering, as the only source of color on the man's canvas. It took Steve's breath away.

“You're beautiful,” he whispered.

Color rushed into James' cheeks.

Steve drew closer upon invitation to have a better look. It was stupid of him, but he couldn't halt the urge to reach out and trace his fingers over the lone feather. Upon realizing what he'd done, he jerked his hand back as though scalded.

“S-sorry. I shouldn't have--”

“Don't apologize. Alex, he does not appreciate as you do.”

“Then he's blind.”

“Mother, she teaches us about finding firebird feather. It is omen of hard journey.” The man's Russian accent became thicker. “There are many versions. Sometimes it is charm of good luck, sometimes premonition that portends doom. Usually, a hero sets out to capture bird, but I do not want to capture. The journey is reward, not the spoils.”

A little smile blossomed. “That's beautiful.”

“You are really interested?” The other man looked up with an odd sort of vulnerability.

“Do you remember what I told you?”

“That I do not have to stop being Russian just because I am also American?”

“Don't ever loose the things that make you you.”

For the second time, the enchantment broke apart, this time when James' phone vibrated. The man stepped away to answer the call and spoke in hushed tones as he argued with whoever was on the other end of the connection. There seemed to be some discrepancy over dinner plans.

After James ended the call, he suggested they should get going.

Steve gathered his soiled clothes, cast one last longing glance toward the sun-lit corner, and followed his companion back to the car. No matter how curious he was about the phone call, he wasn't about to pry for information when James had given him the courtesy of keeping his own privacy. 

The trip to Avengers Tower was tense. They entered the parking garage and received a visitor pass that allowed them to park nearer the doors. James turned to him, forced a little smile, and allowed his hand to brush Steve's shoulder.

“I will wait here.” A beat of silence passed.

Steve allowed his head to rest against the seat, cocked to the side so he could maintain eye contact with the other man. Just another moment and he would force himself to go inside and face the music. He only wanted another moment to look into the steady eyes of the man beside him.

His companion mimicked his pose, a little smile lifting his mouth. Quietly, he started to sing. The Russian words were soft, comforting, his voice authentic. A hand lifted and grazed across Steve's cheekbone. The blue of James' eyes, the honey of his voice, held him enthralled. He couldn't look away. Didn't want to look away. Felt something swell inside his chest.

When the man's voice stilled, Steve whispered, “What song was that?”

“Fly little feather across a field and brush away my sorrows. Brush the dust from my face and turn into my wing. If I could have a falcon's wings or a strength of stone. If I could have as many brothers as trees in the forests or could begin my life anew. Then I wouldn't lie in this open field looking at the clouds in the sky. Then I wouldn't ask this tiny feather to chase and brush away my sorrow.”

He swallowed heavily and reached to press his palm against the hand being used to stroke his cheek. “That's beautiful. You're beautiful, James.”

A sharp tone squealed, an alarm warning him of the impending meeting. Steve jumped. Their hands flew from each other's personal space.

“I s-s-should go,” stammered Steve.

“I'll be here when you are done.”

Going into the elevator and losing sight of his companion felt like walking to the gallows. He kicked himself, called himself a thousand times a fool, upon realizing how emotionally close he felt to the other man. He was attracted to James. That thought bore repeating. He was _attracted_ to James. Worse, his attraction was more emotional than physical.

It was a catastrophe. Eventually, James would realize how broken he was and withdraw, and even if that weren't the case, even if the other man could overlook how emotionally unavailable he was, James still had a boyfriend. He lived with his boyfriend. Steve was wearing one of his boyfriend's suits.

By the time he made it to HR and waited the ten minutes it took for him to be seen, he'd shredded his insides into paper strips. Someone would find him in a little pile and use him to line the cage of a gerbil. That was Steve's fate, to be pissed on by someone's starter pet, and god, how was he going to make it through the meeting and look James in the face again?

Maria Hill, after his name was called and he was directed into her office, was an intimidating woman, dressed on the cutting edge of fashion with a deceptively mild-mannered face that covered the razor wire hidden in her core. He perched nervously across the desk from her while she looked over his records and his latest projects. He cringed upon seeing how uninspired those projects were.

To his great surprise, she didn't immediately terminate him, just asked him how he found working for Avengers Media and whether he thought he was doing a good job balancing his work and home life. There weren't any good answers for that, as he refused to divulge the reasons for his flighty behavior.

In the end, she put him on probation. If he missed one more day without a doctor's note, he would be released from the internship program. Same thing if he didn't start living up to his potential. She also directed him toward resources he might avail himself of if he was having a difficult time in his personal life. Steve wouldn't open the list she sent to his work email. He didn't need help.

He didn't say much upon returning to car, and thankfully, his companion didn't pry.

Everything changed when they returned to James' apartment so Steve could leave his borrowed suit with its rightful owner. It changed the moment they stepped inside and his glance lifted upon hearing _that_ voice greeting James, who walked forward to embrace his boyfriend. _That_ voice was locked inside his head. It would haunt him forever.

“We borrowed one your suits, Alex,” James was saying. “This is Steve, a friend of mine. He had an important meeting and needed a fresh change of clothes. I hope that's all right.”

“Of course, darling. Steve?” The man extended a hand. For a fraction of a second, recognition brought a razor quality to Alex's blue eyes. It was gone moments later, and the man offered his hand to shake. “It's a pleasure to meet you. Any friend of James is a friend of mine.”

Steve stared at the hand. Stared at Alex. Heard a zipper sliding down. Felt his legs being pried apart. Smelled the sour odor of garbage and smog and the tangy scent of sweat. Heard that voice whispering in his ear. _'You're going to scream for me.'_ And he had. God, he had.

“I have to go,” he choked out while looking between James and his boyfriend. “I have to get out of here.” Breathing became difficult. “I have to go.” A lightheaded sensation made him feel faint. “I have to get out of here.” He was going to throw up. “I have to go.”

“Steve?” James sounded concerned.

That little pin flashed golden on the collar of Alex's shirt.

Without thinking, he turned and fled.

James shouted after him.

He didn't pick his foot up high enough and scuffed the sole of his borrowed shoes against the hallway carpet. Steve fell. He skinned his palms. Footsteps hurried after him. He was up in a flash and just made it onto the elevator before James could catch him. The doors slid shut, cutting off his view of the man he had been falling for looking scared.

As soon as the doors opened on the ground floor, he skidded out despite the man at the front desk calling after him. Nothing mattered but getting out of there and somewhere safe, hopefully the dark confines of his bedroom. No, he couldn't go there. Clint would be there and demand to know what was wrong. Clint wouldn't allow him to fade the way Steve wanted to fade.

Couldn't go home. Couldn't call James to rescue him. Nowhere to go where he could shut the world out and never emerge. His cell phone buzzed in his pocket. Thunder rumbled overhead. The first fat pellets peppered down around him. Nowhere was safe.

A red Mazda pulled up beside him as he stood on a street corner trying to figure out where to go that would be safe. The window rolled down.

“Steve, I do not know what happened, but please, get in car. You are going to get hurt.”

His heart lodged somewhere north of his collarbones, and he looked through the drizzle to James. “I can't. Please leave me alone.”

Pursued, chased by a pack of hunting dogs like he was a fox, he darted into an alley. The red car couldn't follow him. He exited the alley, looked in both directions this time before dashing across the street, and hailing a taxi.

By the time he was sheltered in its confines, he was soaked through and covered in goosebumps with no idea what address to give the driver, so he just asked to be taken to a motel. The only cheap motels were in the seediest parts of town, but Steve didn't care about the neighborhood; he only cared about getting indoors where no one could find him.

The room was shabby, the carpets threadbare and cracks had formed in the walls from the building settling. He pressed himself into a corner, arms folded across his chest, and allowed the darkness to soothe him into a sensation of non-existence. The world could spin around him as long as he was cradled inside the dark cocoon sheltering him from being hurt or from the world finding out he was still too weak to defend himself. All his strength. All his muscles, and they'd hurt him anyway.

Eventually, he came to enough to feel the tightness of the suit. That was when a new thought came. He was wearing one of Alex's suits. The clothes suffocating him belonged to the man who'd forced his way inside him like a battering ram. Sobbing, Steve lurched to his feet and shed the garments, tearing fabric in the process. Buttons scattered cross the carpet.

***

James felt heavy when he finally gave up. Trying to find someone in a city like New York wasn't like in the movies, where cops conveniently knew all the locations the bad guys would hide. By the time he made it over to the next street, Steve was gone, and no amount of driving around the neighborhood looking for him produced his location.

Tired, he finally drove back into the parking garage at two in the morning to head back to his apartment. Steve had looked so terrified. He'd never seen anyone look so hunted.

Alex was still awake, sitting up in bed reading something on the tablet when he keyed inside. The other man rolled to his feet to greet him with an embrace. “No luck?” he asked.

“No,” he said, working to speak normal English for Alex's sake. “And there's no one I know to call. We haven't talked about our families much. I don't know why he spooked so badly.”

It felt nice being able to rest his head against the other man's chest and feel familiar hands smoothing up and down his back. That small bit of comfort helped ease the tension of a long night. Steve had looked so scared. Maybe his friend didn't have anyone else to go to. Maybe he was out there wandering the streets with nowhere to go and no one to comfort him from the demons in pursuit.

“Obviously he's been through something horrendous. Could have been anything that set him off. Come on. I kept dinner warm for you. You should eat something and take a hot bath.”

James almost protested given Alex's track record with James' diet, only he worried for no reason, as his boyfriend brought over a plate containing baked salmon, a small salad, and a serving of acorn squash, all things on his approved diet to maintain body weight and strength. He looked up at Alex with gratitude and didn't realize how hungry he was until he took the first bite.

He had to eat eight times a day, mostly snacks rich with complex carbs for energy and healthy fats, things like a handful of nuts or a cup of yogurt sprinkled with whole grain oats. Spending the evening roaming the streets meant he hadn't maintained his schedule and was feeling the strain of hunger and dehydration. Having Alex take care of him was nice.

His boyfriend stroked his hair and shoulder while he ate until James lost interest in the food and moved onto his boyfriend's lap in order to rest his head on the man's shoulder. It was what they'd been missing since the infidelities had come to light. That closeness of being able to hold each other and derive comfort was something they'd lost recently.

After a while, Alex got up to fill the bathtub with hot water, at which point, he undressed James and eased him down to allow the heat to sooth tired muscles. They were quiet. It was a nice change from their usual dynamic where Alex liked to prattle on about his day or the soccer team.

He stretched in the tub, arched his feet and pointed his toes to skim one up the inside of Alex's thigh, who sat on the edge of the tub allowing the silence to wash over them. Now and then, his boyfriend smiled and drizzled a handful of water down James' chest to watch the droplets gather in the peaks and valleys of his dancer's muscles.

Eventually, the man lathered a wash cloth to drag soap bubbles across James' skin. “I've made you feel unattractive, haven't I? That's why you haven't been satisfied when we're intimate.”

He ducked his head. “Yes. At least that's part of it.”

Alex grinned and eased down into the water, clothes and all, at which point, he clasped James around the hips and urged him astride his own.

He laughed. “Alex, you could have gotten naked first.”

“Would have taken too long.”

Huffing a chuckle, he brushed his lips across the man's jaw. Part of him wanted to stop his boyfriend's hand from skimming down his torso in order to wrap strong fingers around his cock. He was worried about Steve and just didn't feel in the mood, but they were having a good night. He didn't want to be the wrench thrown into the works that added stress into the mix.

In the end, he was glad he didn't put a stop to things. It felt good having his boyfriend's attention, made him ignore that horrified expression on Steve's face he couldn't seem to forget. There in the bath, his boyfriend worked him open and sank into him, causing James's head to fall back and his throat to arch forward. He strained into the man beneath him, and when he finally came and they were both satisfied, Alex dried him and took him to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve has an anxiety attack during his appointment with Sam and flees.
> 
> Later, Steve unexpectedly meets Alexander Pierce face to face and finds out James is dating his attacker.
> 
> The song James was listening to in his car is this one: [Bitter Ruin Chewing Gum](https://youtu.be/NUwE4wwes28?t=1769)
> 
> The song James sings to Steve is here: [Fly Little Feather](https://youtu.be/IlaqjRxHueU)


	4. Demi-plié

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve finally takes a step forward in his recovery, and we get a peek into James' backstory from Lyovikha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's interested, [this](http://www.abt.org/education/dictionary/) is a great resource for understanding some of the ballet terminology in this work.

Four days later and Steve still hadn't returned his calls and texts. James looked down at the device as though it was the singular cause for the inadequacy of his attention span while munching on a handful of raisins and nuts during a break in class. He tucked the phone back in his gym bag and downed half a bottle of water to hydrate himself just as Mrs. Jarvis called them back to attention.

Some of the newer members of the corps de ballet were struggling with a combination in the routine, so Ana called him forward to demonstrate. He started in a croisée and turned into a pirouette at demi-pointe, moving adagio, gracefully, into an attitude, a variation of an arabesque that bent the extended leg at ninety degrees. His body whipped around and finished with an assemblé performed in allegro. While he moved, Mrs. Jarvis pointed out the transitions James used.

After class, she inquired about his choreography and reminded him that a complete performance would be expected in two weeks. His throat was dry and tacky, so instead of explaining that some personal issues had come up, he merely nodded. That tiny seed of want growing inside refused to allow him to quit no matter how much easier that would be.

Natalia approached while the rest of the class filed out, and she gave him a long, considering look. When she broke the silence, her voice was quiet. “Dance with me.”

“You never have problems learning your choreography, little spider.”

“Dance with me,” she insisted, hand extended.

Laughter distracted him. He turned to watch Leo, a girl on each arm, slipping from the female locker room. Leo didn't struggle with choreography or with being emotionally available to the music.

“Stop looking at him.”

He whipped his attention back around at the steel in Natalia's voice and looked down where her fingers touched his left forearm. A shudder worked through him upon realizing he hadn't felt the touch.

Natalia was five years his senior but a hundred years more mature. There was something ancient in her eyes, like she had seen things that people weren't meant to have seen.

“Dance with me. The Bluebird and Princess Florine pas de deux.”

Denying her wasn't possible. He laid his hand in hers. She spun outward, and he started the leaping steps and scissor kicks of Sleeping Beauty's dance. Moments later, Natalia joined him, turning delicate pirouettes as they moved around each other. Her steps and kicks wove around the hardwoods like lace, and they came together again to work across the studio with another series of leaps, bends, and scissor kicks, this time a perfect mirror of each other. Finally, they broke apart into another set of jumps that stretched across the floor, light as feathers, until moving into rest position at the end.

“You are worth more than you allow,” she said. “Dance with me during our new performance. Leonid doesn't understand the role. Pietro is too young and inexperienced. I want you to dance with me.”

He remained quiet.

“This will be my last season.”

“You're only thirty-five, little spider.”

A smile tugged one corner of her mouth. “My body tells me it's time. The Bolshoi company has offered me position as ballet master.”

The news brought sadness in its wake. She'd been a pillar with the NYCB. He couldn't imagine not seeing her in class every day, but only a fool turned down a position with the Bolshoi Ballet.

“I want my last partner to be you, Yashka. Tell me you will try.”

“I'll try, Natashenka. Of course I will for you.”

The studio emptied as people went their separate ways, leaving the area quiet, Natalia and James the only bright points of life inside the silent building. She padded over to the sound system.

“You fell from a mountain, Yashka. You broke upon the rocks.”

He leaped into a grand jeté, came down with one leg raised like a rudder behind him and paused for a fraction of a second before allowing his knee to collapse and drop him to the floor. He curled into a fetal position. Soft, dark strains of violin filtered from the sound system.

“Stop,” she commanded. “What is wrong with your arm?”

James glanced over himself, quickly realizing his damaged arm was bent awkwardly. He shook himself out in an attempt to restore feeling to the limb but nothing helped the tingles of nerve damage.

“An old injury,” he responded. At least that was what his parents insisted. He didn't remember damaging the limb. “I should... Wait here for me.”

That said, he hurried upstairs to visit the company's physician. It wasn't the first time his arm had malfunctioned during class or performances. A pain killer and a shot of cortisone injected into the shoulder usually cleared it up.

When he returned, they got started again.

“The pain is terrible, Yashka. Your body is crumbling.”

He resettled himself in a fetal position. A beat of sound. A wail of violin. And his back arched. His chest lifted toward the ceiling only to fold again. One foot, en pointe, skittered across the floor until his knee was bent, pelvis lifted. He pushed up onto the toe. His body arched like a drawn bow.

“You're in your head, James.” She smacked her hands together to call his attention. “Stop thinking. Just move. Your world is crumbling around you.”

Teeth ground together. His jaw ached. He thought about coming home and finding Alex on their bed inside another man. He remembered how their bodies had moved together, so fluidly and realized Alex and he had lost that fluidity a long time ago. Pain crept into his expression. His body contorted. Pelvis still raised and toes en pointe, he whipped his other leg toward the ceiling and used the pointed toe to slash open the sky.

“Get up. Pull your broken pieces together and rise.”

He collapsed back against the scuffed floor. A beat of silence passed.

“Get up,” she snapped. “Gather your pieces and rise.”

He clawed his way across the floor and swung his legs into the splits to get the core of his body beneath him. Slowly, he pushed up, starting to rise, pausing then as his body wavered on the brink of giving out. When he finally stood, it was with slumped shoulders and bowed head.

“Adagio,” she instructed. “Slowly.”

The music pulled him into tiny, fluttering movements, a gentle sway, small in the face of the mountain's power. Finally, he looked up to bask in its glory. He tried to climb only to fall, forced himself back to his feet to climb again. But the mountain was strong. Alex's infidelity had crushed him. He reached deeper looking for something inside the ice with which to anchor him.

Natalia struck the heels of her hands together with the beat as the music changed. “Allegro, Yashka. Move or the mountain will crush you.”

He spun into a series of pirouettes, small foot changes and steps interlaced between the turns.

“Allegro. Allegro. You are strong. You must beat the mountain.”

His chest popped outward. An arm whipped skyward. His rear foot stretched backward into an arabesque croisée. The world around him faded. He must be strong. Lights inside the studio flickered like a strobe, a tiny buzz overpowering the music as he stumbled. The clear glass of the bulb allowed him to see the filament inside struggling against the darkness while he curled into a tighter position. The room was dark but for that one light, and she was coming. The Angel of Death was coming. Her thick, heeled shoes clomped against the poured concrete of the floor.

He could just make out the white smock covering her black dress and the red cross in the center.

“Yasha,” her sweet voice called. “Yakov Buturovich Barniov. Come out and take your medicine.”

Fear unlike anything he'd ever felt before broke the icy dam around his heart. Something wet rushed down his thigh and brought with it the stench of urine.

“Yashka, look at me.” That sweet, angelic voice was replaced with Natalia's harsher tone.

James jerked back to reality so quickly he was damn near sick only to find himself curled into a corner of the studio with his face jammed into his forearms to somehow defend against the terror that was coming. He didn't realize he was crying at first. The scent of urine remained.

“What is it, little soldier? What did they do to you?”

Swallowing rapidly, he finally forced himself out of his hole to look at her. “I--” He swallowed again, so inexplicably terrified he relapsed to Russian. “I do not know what happened.”

She hushed him and pulled him from the corner into her arms. Her voice was softer when she sang one of Mother's folk tunes. He recognized it and allowed himself to press into her comfort.

The thing was that those images had felt so real, so visceral, but he couldn't remember ever experiencing anything like that. He had no context. Like any kid, he'd experienced his fair share of doctor visits. He'd had the occasional broken bone and childhood sniffle, but he couldn't remember a nurse who had ever instilled that kind of terror. He would have remembered that. Right?

Laughter bubbled out of him, the edges tinged with hysteria. Why was he laughing? He shouldn't be laughing after something so terrifying, but once he got started, he had trouble stopping.

Natalia tucked her fingers beneath his chin to tilt his face up and wiped away the wet tracks of tears. “That's enough for today. Go and wash yourself. I'll take you home.”

“W-w-why?” He meant to ask why he should wash himself when leaving the confines of the studio sounded far more necessary but couldn't get the words past his laughter. It wasn't until he stood on shaking legs that he realized he'd urinated on himself. With that realization came humiliation. Grown men didn't piss themselves from childish nightmares.

And why couldn't he stop laughing?

The hysterical fit faded once he was under the hot spray of the shower. After that, he was just numb. He dressed in street clothes, an oversized shirt that swallowed his powerful frame and a patchwork handkerchief skirt. The comfortable clothes soothed him.

Natalia awaited him outside the locker rooms, and arm in arm, they left the studio.

A man waited outside. He had dishwater hair and weathered, tan skin. His clothes were a mismatch of holy denim and garish, purple shoes. The shirt had a bow and arrow logo on it. As soon as he saw them, he jumped up from the step he'd been sitting on to approach.

“You James who dances for the NYCB?”

Natalia stepped slightly in front of him. “Depends on who wants to know.”

The newcomer's glance hesitated on Natalia before pinning James with a steady look. “You know a guy named Steve Rogers?”

Something leaped inside his chest. “Yes. Is he nor--” He caught himself mid-word. “Is he all right?”

The other man's shoulders sagged a little. “I wouldn't know. I ain't seen him in four days.”

“You mean he's missing?”

“Yeah. I'm his roommate—name's Clint—and damn near his only friend in the world, but he's been talking about this real swell guy named James who dances with the ballet here. I was hoping you might know where he is. His mom's real worried about him.”

“Something spooked him when he was at my apartment, and he took off. I drove around looking and tried calling him to make sure he was safe but haven't heard anything.”

A heavy sigh sagged the other man's posture. “Look, it's real important I find him. He's not-- Well, it ain't my story to tell, but I'm worried he might try to hurt himself. I've gotta find him.”

“Have you tried tracing his credit cards?”

Both men turned and looked at Natalia. She raised both eyebrows and shrugged.

Clint exchanged a glance with him.

Natalia muttered “Amateurs” beneath her breath before gliding down the sidewalk, the strike of her nude pumps like a hammer against the concrete. She paused upon realizing they weren't following and turned back with a huff. “Well? Are you waiting for written instructions?”

He didn't want to ask how Natalia knew to track credit card information. He surely didn't want to ask when they turned up outside the local precinct and waited while she went inside to speak to “a friend.” Said friend, a hard looking woman with black hair, took her into a back room. James and Clint were left to sit uncomfortably beside each other.

His companion moved to speak several times only to remain silent. When that wasn't enough, he stuffed hands beneath thighs and bounced a little. Finally, he broke down and said, “Nice skirt.”

“Nice shoes.”

They both said at the same time, “Thanks.”

“So you're a real good ballet dancer, huh? What's that like?”

“What's it like being a gymnast? Or a track runner? Or a swimmer?”

“Yeah, but those are, like, real sports.”

Breath hissed through James' teeth.

“What, man? What'd I say?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, don't be like that. If I said something offensive, you gotta tell me about it.”

“Leave me alone.”

“No, no. We gotta communicate here, Swan Lake. Talk to me.”

James finally exploded, “I spend eight hours each day on company class perfecting dance routines followed by one hour working solo choreography. If lucky, I squeeze on deep tissue massage to keep my body limber before going ninety minutes in weight training, but no, what I do is not real sport because it involves precision and grace rather than banging my head against another grown man's.”

His companion leaned farther away from him. “Yolo, Man. Gotta keep that cholesterol down.”

“What?” Short and clipped.

Clint held up his hands again in surrender. “Sorry I offended. Clearly, I know nothing about ballet.”

James cringed upon realizing the number of mistakes made during his tirade and forced himself to calm down. “What is 'Yolo?'”

“You only live once.”

The world breathed a sigh of relief at the near miss when Natalia returned from deeper in the precinct with her friend, who she addressed as Jessica when she said farewell. Her glance, sharp and green, flicked between them as though she could feel the tension in the air. Their shoulders sagged.

“Are you coming, or am I doing this myself?”

He surged to his feet, anything to get away from being alone with Clint for a moment longer. It was one of Steve's best qualities, the ability to be still and quiet. They could exist beside each other without their railroad tracks converging. There was a comfort to that silence that lacked the pressure of making conversation for conversation's sake. Clint lacked it. In spades.

They took his Mazda to the listed address that turned out to be a rather decrepit looking motel on the outskirts of Koreatown. There was nowhere on the island of Manhattan where he felt uncomfortable walking during the day, so the surroundings didn't bother him. It was just that thinking of Steve wandering around after dark when he was in the middle of a breakdown didn't sit well, made him sigh in relief when Natalia came back from the registration office with a room number.

Clint knocked.

A long stretch of silence followed in which worry coiled around his throat like a snake.

Finally, the door cracked open as far as the chain would allow, and a pale-looking Steve could be seen through the opening. “What?” His voice creaked. “How did you find me?”

“Let me in, buddy. Don't make me break this door down.”

“I just need some time alone.”

“You've had four days. That's long enough. Come on, Man. Your mother's worried sick.”

The man finally stepped back to unlatch the chain and opened the door. Light poured into an otherwise dim interior, illuminating a depression nest full of take out wrappers and empty containers from convenience stores. The bed was a mess. The lights were off, and the only illumination inside came from the television screen, which was tuned to a Spanish channel.

The worst part was when Steve flinched upon seeing James. That simple act told him all he needed to know, that he'd done something, however unknowingly, to hurt the man and make him afraid, so he hovered near the door instead of fully entering the room. The place smelled like sweat and vomit.

“T-the s-suit was torn,” Steve stuttered. “I'll-- If you'll tell me what it cost, I'll reimburse you.”

James kept his tone even and low. “There is no need. It is just a suit. This is Natalia. She's a friend.”

The comment drew Natalia's sharp glance in his direction with one arched brow. “Yes. I'm a friend.”

Clint stepped nearer, forcing Steve into a hasty retreat, which prompted Clint to hold up his hands as a show of peace. “Let's get you home, big guy. You can call your ma. She's probably put out an APB on you or something. James here is gonna drive us back to our apartment.”

A golden head of hair swiveled back and forth. “N-no. I want to take a taxi.”

The rejection made James swallow heavily. He wished he knew what he'd done so he could apologize. Even if friendship was no longer a possibility, he at least wanted to express how sorry he was that he'd ruined things between them.

James said, “I will go. I do not want to make you afraid anymore. Please take care of him, Clint.”

It hurt. Considering they'd seen each other a grand total of three times, he was surprised by just how much the sting lingered, but at least there was comfort in having found the other man, knowing he was in safe hands again. James could slither back into the cold and ice and exist there indefinitely.

“Will you be all right?” Natalia asked when they were back in the car.

“Of course. I am from Lyovikha.” Which was the only explanation needed to describe the density of his core. Steve Rogers may have temporarily melted the outer edges of the iceberg, but nothing could warm its heart. There was no spring thaw beckoning just around the corner.

He dropped her outside her apartment where she met a dark-haired woman. The two hurried toward one another and embraced. After a brief conversation, Natalia opened the door and escorted the other woman inside, who haphazardly dragged a carry on bag behind her.

***

Steve's life was not done intersecting with James Barnes, boyfriend of one of the men who'd raped him. They started running into each other on a near daily basis. When they bumped into each other at Third Rail, Steve picked a new coffee shop. They saw each other at a bistro, James having lunch with a woman sporting a man's undercut and wicked looking tattoos, so he started bringing lunch from the apartment. When Avengers Media terminated his contract for missing four days of work while holed up in his depression den, he got a job waiting tables in a restaurant that James and his boyfriend just so happened to walk through the doors of during Steve's third shift. Shortest job on record.

After two weeks of bouncing around the city, his mother threatened to badger him into moving home if he didn't start seeing a therapist, so eventually, he agreed to make an appointment. The fact that Clint turned up in the health and wellness center with a picnic lunch and Bobbi Morse on his arm on the same day and time of Steve's appointment couldn't be chalked up to anything but meddling. He loved Clint to pieces but could have done without said meddling.

His second appointment with Sam Wilson went much like the first minus the running out in an anxiety-fueled panic. He sat across from his therapist and looked at his hands while Sam made polite conversation without contributing much more than an occasional nod of agreement. They met again the following week with the same results. 

Granted, he learned a lot about Mr. Wilson during their hour long sessions. The man had served two tours in Afghanistan only to retire following the sudden death of his wingman, Riley. Steve wondered if there was more to that story given the fondness with which Sam spoke about his partner, but he didn't bother satiating his curiosity with questions. Sam had then used the GI bill to pay for the masters degree he was working toward in order to be a full time psychologist. Also, he had a little gray and white whippet named Bolt, who accompanied him to the office during their third session and spent the hour begging Steve for treats. There was something soothing about having the dog around.

Their dynamic changed one afternoon when Sam plopped down on a bench beside him at Washington Square Park while Steve was eating lunch. Bolt tugged excitedly on her leash in failed attempts at stealing his turkey sandwich.

“How you doing, man?”

Steve shrugged. “Don't have a job. I'm a poor college student, so my roommate's probably gonna kick me out when I can't make my half of the rent anymore. And if I have to spend one more lecture listening to Professor Stark jabber on like he's doing us a favor by making us argue about ethical things, I might scream. Or yank myself bald.”

“We're talking about the same Clint Barton, right?”

He shrugged.

“Steve.” Sam didn't continue until Steve gave up and looked up from the pavement to meet his glance. “You're gonna graduate with an evade and deny degree if you aren't careful, man. You got someone who can help you sitting right here, but I can't unless you talk to me.”

He breathed heavily and suddenly didn't have any appetite, tucking the sandwich back into the Tupperware container to return it to his lunch bag. “I'm thinking about dropping my classes and moving to the west coast. Anywhere but here. There are too many triggers here.”

“That Steve Rogers talking or his untreated anxiety?”

“They're one and the same, aren't they?”

“Only if you let 'em be. Anxiety doesn't have to define what it is to be Steve Rogers. It can just be on a comprehensive list of what makes him up.”

Maybe it was the open air of their surroundings or Bolt sitting quietly against his shins or the fact that he'd bailed on a job interview because he'd woken with his throat screamed raw from nightmares. “Have you read the headlines about the off-campus rape near the Pi Eta Chi Chi House?”

Sam nodded.

“That was me.”

A long moment of silence stretched between them.

Finally, Sam said, “First, you didn't do anything wrong. What happened was not your fault. You are not responsible for what those men did.”

“I am. If I'd fought harder--” He choked on the rest of his comment.

“Hey, man.” Sam bumped their shoulders. “Emotions aren't wrong. They just are. The way you're feeling? It's completely normal. They took control away from you. Trying to self-blame is your brain's way of assigning yourself some control over the situation. You'd rather be wrong than helpless.”

That shocked him enough to make him finally meet Sam's gaze.

“It's totally okay for you to feel the way you feel. We just need to work on giving you some coping strategies to keep that feeling from overwhelming you to the point the rest of the world takes a back seat. There is life after rape, Steve. I promise you it doesn't always have to be this bad.”

The thing was, Steve wanted to believe him, felt like maybe Sam understood. He loved Ma and Clint to pieces, but any time he talked about how helpless they'd made him, they were both quick to brush aside his feelings of guilt to reassure him he wasn't in any way in the wrong. That was their jobs, to be in his corner no matter what, but it also meant his guilt and shame had nowhere to go but to dig deeper into his psyche. It meant he was wrong for feeling them and wrong for expressing them.

Having someone validate his feelings the way Sam just had? He felt a little lighter following their talk, like maybe Sam was right and maybe there was something that came after Steve Rogers: Rape Victim.

It was the only reason he went back to the Lincoln Center when he was called in for a second round of interviews. It was the only reason he didn't tell Professor Stark to punch himself when they crossed paths after class and Tony asked if he was okay because he hadn't been contributing to class the way he normally did. And no, he didn't open his mouth and allow the truth to come pouring out, but he did take the two seconds necessary to tell his ethics professor that he'd been having some personal issues to work through, at which point, Tony clapped him on the shoulder and wished him well.

Life didn't suddenly become easier just because Sam Wilson pushed a magic button. There were still incredibly hard days, days when he didn't come out of his room for anything more than the bathroom or the kitchen. He didn't start cleaning his room, but he got better at not becoming lost at sea.

Which was why he was at the stove cooking up his ma's traditional pastie when Clint came home.

“What the Hell is that smell? Our apartment transfigurate into ambrosia central?”

“Just cooking up one of Ma's recipes. Thought you'd be hungry when you got in from practice.” Steve put their dinner in the oven and padded into the living room to watch Clint unload gear from his gym bag. The black case across the couch contained the man's compound bow and practice arrows.

 _“When you gonna try out for the Olympic team?”_ he signed.

Clint huffed. _“Kate's thinking of doing Tokyo. Still got a couple of years to decide if I'm going to join her there or not. Gotta keep in practice, though.”_

 _“You should. It'd be a crying shame to waste your talent.”_ A black box fell from the gym bag onto the floor. Steve stooped to scoop it up. “What's this?”

“Don't!” 

Too late. Steve opened the lid to find a low profile band inset with smooth river pebbles. Along the inside of the band was engraved 'Mockingbird.' He swallowed heavily. “Clint is this--? Are you going to propose to Bobbi?”

“Stop looking at me like that.” His roommate scowled and snatched the box back to stuff it inside his pants pocket. There was a long stretch of silence. “You think it's dumb?”

Witnessing Clint's vulnerability was so rare he wanted to reach out and clasp the other man's shoulder but settled instead on a supportive smile. “I think it's perfect for Bobbi. Can't have a normal engagement ring when you're out punching bad guys. Might knock the stone loose.”

“No, I mean do you think it's stupid for me to ask? 'M I moving too fast?”

“Clint, you been dating this girl for six months. That's, like, the entire Pleistocene Epoch for you. I think if you wanna marry this girl, you should. Marriage isn't the life sentence it used to be. If it doesn't work out, you get divorced.”

His roommate cringed.

“Hey.” Steve did scramble closer to touch the man's shoulder that time. “Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stick my foot in it. I know you're taking this seriously and don't want to go into a marriage thinking it's going to end. Just punch me in the mouth and get it over with.”

“Come on. I ain't punching you just 'cause you're a jerk-face.”

Silence stretched between them while Steve wrestled with his feelings. Selfishly, he didn't want things to change, but he wasn't feeling very selfish after everything he'd put Clint and his ma through recently. Finally, he said, “I'll start looking for places. Lease renewal is coming up soon. You can put Bobbi on the lease here, and I'll find something for myself.”

“Hey, that's not--”

“You're going to be married soon. You don't want a bachelor messing everything up and getting in the way of your love nest. Maybe you and Bobbi will start a family. You'll certainly want your privacy. Besides, I've been thinking of making a change anyway.”

“She might not even say yes.”

“Pal, you're a peach. If that girl doesn't say yes, then she's the densest fruit cake that ever fruit caked.” He smiled. “It's fine. Ask that girl to be your wife and go be happy.”

The following day, he started looking through Craigslist and other advertising platforms for people looking for roommates and tried to be happy for his pal. For the most part, it worked, but there was still a sucking sensation in the pit of his stomach that said he was being rejected again, that insisted he knew where he existed on everyone's list of priorities and didn't consider himself very high.

It was a topic of conversation during his next therapy appointment, at which time, Sam brought up medication that could help treat his depression and anxiety. He didn't want a bunch of medications in his system, not after how hard he'd fought to get his body in proper working order. Mostly, he'd weaned himself off all the supplements and injections that had kept him alive during his youth but was still prescribed scripts for his diabetes, thyroid, and asthma, and always carried a syringe filled with epinephrin—no way was a broke ass college kid going to keep up with Mylan's price gouging—in the event of encountering one of his allergies.

He reluctantly agreed, and left his doctor's office a few days later with a script for Citalopram for depression and buspirone for anxiety. The side effects were mild for him, thank God, and by the time the medication built up in his system, he was better able to let things go. They weren't miracle fixes either, but his brain stopped getting stuck on a carousel taking him round in circles in depressive thoughts, and if wanking in the shower proved frustratingly difficult, well, he would take an unfulfilled sex drive over the sucking pit of despair that had threatened to drown him in quicksand.

***

“You have to use your own pain, allow it to show through in your dancing, Yashka. Now get up and do it again. Think about the soldier's mindset. What is he feeling when he finds out they betrayed him?”

James snapped, “I don't know!” An explosion of movement scattered chaotic notes through the atmosphere as he hurled an empty bottle of Gatorade across the room in the direction of the recycling can. He broke into a flurry of Russian. “I do not know, Natashenka. I am cold inside. Can you not see that I am cold through to the core?”

The woman slid down the mirror and dropped onto her behind, knees drawn up to her chest, cheek resting against her upturned knees, fine crimson hair matted to her forehead with sweat. She was silent for a few moments before rearranging herself in order to look up at him. There was something soft and vulnerable in her eyes, childlike even.

“We are not so different, little soldier.” Her voice was whisper soft and nearly drowned out by the echo of the empty studio. 

James slumped down beside her, wrists braced against his upturned knees.

“Mother's indifference made us cold,” she continued. “We allowed ourselves to freeze so as not to feel her indifference. You were frozen by Lyovikha. I was frozen by orphanage.”

He pressed his body against hers and looked down into the depths of her eyes when she propped her chin atop his shoulder. “Tell me.”

She didn't want to. That much was clear. Eventually, she said, “My family, Batya and Mamochka, died when our building caught fire. They took me to orphanage in Volgograd. Mother does not love her orphans the way she should. There were too many of us with too few caregivers. They tried their best to give us what we needed. It was Mother's fault for not providing well enough for her lost children.”

He waited for her to gather her thoughts, tucked his chin atop her head, and whispered, “No one helped the little spider to weave her web?”

“Eventually a man, Ivan Petrovitch, came to adopt me. He did his best but work kept him away. There were nannies until I was sent away to ballet school.”

That was the way of the world, he thought. No grand drama, just humans caught up in being human and not knowing how to set their priorities right. In their rush to live, they failed to give Natashenka what she needed to blossom. 

It was just the way his own mama and papa had spent their lives working to pay for ballet school and squirrel away money for Rivka's college until there weren't enough hours in the day to give their children what they really wanted which was their love and attention. No one was to blame, really, for the iceberg. Maybe Natalia and he had been born wrong, born needing more than most children to make them feel safe and warm.

“How do you find the emotion to dance?” he eventually asked.

“I break the story down to its basic themes. The Widow in our story doesn't know who she is. She dons a mask, becomes someone new to protect her soft core. It is the same with us dancers. We slot into a character, because it's easier to live as a character than to show the world our true faces.”

That made a sort of sense that had escaped James up to that point. When he danced, he did so for the sake of the movement rather than for the sake of the story. If he could connect himself with the story, then wouldn't he feel more invested in the telling of it.

James rose fluidly and circled back to the center of the studio floor to work on his piece again. He could remember how it had felt when Steve looked at him with fear, when their budding friendship had ended without any sort of explanation. That betrayal, that cut, went deeper than he would admit to. Surely the Soldier in their story would feel the same weight of betrayal after discovering his identity had been taken from him to be molded into something that could be used by his former enemy.

The music started. He swayed into soft pirouettes, his body like liquid mercury. He turned as a screw in midair, landed with a graceful whisper against the hardwood and whipped into another spin, leg held at the mid position acting like a rudder against the spin—the contentment he'd felt just sitting beside Steve Rogers, sharing space without their paths becoming entwined.

Shrieks of violins suddenly shredded the peace. His body sliced into a grand jeté as he soared above the world, fingers reaching to skim across the sky. When he landed, he moved into sharp, cutting strokes of his feet, ice skates across the floor, whipping them into a woven pattern of twists and turns while his hands bowed around him into rough angles that ended when he faked a stumble—the chaotic scramble of emotions when Steve had rejected him.

A strong thud of timpani drums mimicked a slowing heartbeat as the soldier's body died on the rocks at the base of the mountain. He fell, allowed himself to connect solidly with the wood floor as he dropped from the heavens like a baby bird with immature wings. That helpless feeling slithered into his tight chest after finding Alex inside other men. His chest popped toward the ceiling. He pushed his pelvis upward by sliding a foot beneath him and using the point of his toes to achieve thrust.

James wasn't aware of much as he moved into a series of rough edges and awkward angles to somehow show the soldier's—his—jagged insides, to portray the brittle glass he'd become as the iceberg was weathered by sun and rain. He could feel the clog of emotion tight in his throat while launching into effortless corkscrews high into the air only to land with a faked stumble.

It hurt. Why couldn't he convey that to Alex? It hurt so goddamn much thinking he wasn't enough to satisfy Alex anymore. The hurt bled into his dance until he dropped, wretched, onto his knees and allowed the closing strains of music to carry him into the grave.

A sound brought his attention up from the floor. Natalia, tears in her eyes, rushed over to gather him into her arms. “Yasha. My Yashka. Little soldier, where have you been?”

“Is this what dancing is supposed to feel like? Like your insides are cut up and raw?”

“It's the only way to strip away the scar tissue, little soldier.” She eased back from embracing him and cupped his cheeks, thumbs skating across his cheekbones.

The vulnerability was too much, and he looked away.

She let him retreat, rising, and padding to retrieve her cell phone when it squealed its chime.

James, for his part, finally picked himself up off the floor and looked down at himself. Sweat soaked the black body stocking he wore. A pair of suspenders held the top edge around his chest to prevent it slipping down mid dance. He took stock of himself before finally gathering his bag to head to the locker room for a much needed shower.

When he emerged, wearing a loose sweater threatening to spill off his shoulder and dark wrap pants left open at the hem, Natalia kissed him goodbye. He took the subway instead of fighting with traffic, tucked himself into the quiet car to feel the sway of the train beneath him and finish reading the book he'd been working on for the past couple of weeks.

A shivery feeling worked up his spine. Dry leaves rustled against his nerves as he watched them spill through the open doorway and scratch across concrete floors. Someone nearby whimpered, called for their mamochka, but it wasn't their mama who answered. A woman in a black dress wearing the white smock of a nurse called softly to the infant.

Breath skittered down his lungs as James curled himself into a fetal position. If he didn't look, she wouldn't notice him. If he hid beneath his sheet and refused to watch, she would leave him alone.

The baby snuffled helplessly.

James lifted the corner of his sheet and looked across the distance that separated them.

“Hush, _rebyonok._ Angel is here,” the nurse said in a sing-song voice. “I will make you well again.”

The baby quieted and gazed up at the angel with teary eyes and knuckles in its mouth.

The angel retrieved a syringe from the pocket of her apron and pricked the baby's skin, causing a sharp wail of protest. Slowly, with wet whimpers and unnatural choking noises, the infant quieted until it rested limply in the angel's arms, its eyes still open and little chest unmoving.

“You are dreaming, little Yasha.”

James stiffened.

“Close your eyes, Yakov. You have not seen what you have seen.”

James closed his eyes, squeezed them tight, and pulled his thin pillow against his chest to have something to hug, something to offer comfort during the presence of the angel.

“Hey, you're gonna fall off that chair if you aren't careful.”

A Bronx accent punched a hole in the hallucination—in the memory?--and brought him back to his surroundings. Several people stared as James sat half-off his seat and slumped against the backrest. He jerked. His phone clattered to the floor of the car and earned several sharp looks from other passengers in the quiet car, so he stooped to scoop it up and tried to reorient himself with his surroundings.

They'd passed his stop two stations ago. He got off at the next station and waited for a train going in the opposite direction to get back to his stop. When that happened, he couldn't get above ground quickly enough to escape the claustrophobia. Fresh air went a long way in clearing his head.

Fingers were shaky against his contacts list as he dialed Rivka.

She answered on the third ring. “Yashka, God, you had better be so very glad I love you.” His sister sounded breathless. A deeper, baritone hummed just away from the phone.

“S-sorry. I--” Words stuck in his throat.

Rivka sounded less distracted when she next spoke. “What's wrong? Are you hurt?”

“N-no. I'm-- Could we have lunch tomorrow? I really need to see you.”

“Yes. Of course. Are you sure you're yourself?”

A little smile tilted James mouth into a smile. It seemed he wasn't the only Russian still having trouble grasping English as a second language. “I am normal. I just want to be with you.”

“I can come over now if you need me.” The man in the background made a distressed sound.

“Are you having sex?”

“Not at this present second. Considering I'm on the phone with my brother.”

“Meet me tomorrow at Tavern on the Green. Half past one. Now go back to what you were doing before I so rudely interrupted.”

“Tomorrow at Tavern on the Green. I'll be there.”

They ended the call and James smothered his face in both hands to draw in deep, soothing breaths. Slowly, the anxiety eased through the soles of his leather Gucci sandals. Delicate strings wove across his feet and up around his ankles to allow his aching toes to get some fresh air.

The last thing he expected upon taking the elevator up and keying into his apartment was to find a trail of rose petals scattered across the floor and leading to the bedroom. There, Alex had laid out James' Burberry jeans, the pair that his boyfriend said made his ass look fantastic, a heather shirt, and the denim jacket Alex claimed made him look like James Dean.

A note accompanied the outfit that read _'Put these on and join me on the roof terrace.'_

He lifted an eyebrow but complied with the instructions, taking the time to shave and spritz on some cologne to make sure he still smelled fresh before heading upstairs. Clearly, his boyfriend had pulled out all the stops to make a romantic evening for them, something that sent little flights of butterflies skittering through his stomach. It had been a long time since his boyfriend had tried for romance.

Stepping out onto the roof terrace allowed a cool rush of autumn air to wash over him. He breathed deep and moved past the other residents who were clustered around certain areas of the terrace until he rounded a planting box and found a magical little wonderland. Twinkling lights arched over a small table laid with elegant cutlery. Flowers dotted the area. Little, round end tables of varying heights were covered in the flickering flames of tea candles.

Alex stood from the table with his usual suave and greeted James with a smile that held more warmth than usual. He came forward to greet him properly with a kiss.

“You changed your cologne,” James remarked when he caught the scent of the orient mingled with a woody note that reminded him of the cologne Steve wore.

“Thought I would try something new. James, you look incredible, but then I knew you would. You always do.” The gold pin adorned the collar of Alex's blazer.

“What is all this?”

“What? I can't treat my boyfriend to something romantic? Here. Sit. Your feet must be aching after spending all day in class.”

James settled into the chair Alex pulled out and waited until his boyfriend had taken the seat across from him before easing tired feet up into the other man's lap. For a change, Alex allowed them to rest there instead of making a joke about creepy dancer's feet. Instead, his boyfriend rang a hand bell.

Men and women came from around the corner bringing plates of food, perfectly seared steaks and asparagus swimming in a savory sauce, a small salad, delicate bread awaiting butter. It was Alex's favorite meal, but James didn't let that bother him when his boyfriend had obviously gone to so much effort to make sure the meal was something he could eat on his diet plan.

Alex took the lead when it came to conversation, filling him in on his studies at school. His boyfriend—James apparently had a thing for younger men—was going for a political science degree with a minor in business. There was talk of an internship at S.H.I.E.L.D, one of the country's leading governmental watchdog groups, which naturally led into Alex's usual rant about government corruption and professional politicians who were more interested in preserving their power base and advancing their own interests than making the country function in a peaceful, prosperous manner.

There wasn't much for him to contribute to that kind of conversation considering he'd been an American citizen for less than a full year and still didn't quite grasp the political landscape, but he was happy to listen to his boyfriend talk about something he was passionate about. It helped that waiters brought a tray of desserts that consisted of various flavors of cheesecake bites and dipping sauces, so Alex pulled his chair around and fed him from his own fingers during most of the political rant.

Conversation moved onto the soccer team. The Violets had done surprisingly well in the Division III championship rounds that season, and Alex thought they had a real shot of finally winning the top title during his final year of school. It was something his boyfriend was incredibly proud of, the fact that he could single-handedly push the team to higher success.

James didn't point out that there was no I in Team, just smiled until they finished the cheesecake bites—he calculated how long he'd have to spend at the gym burning off those calories—and shared a cup of coffee. It was a beautiful evening, and the care that had gone into it made him think about going downstairs and unpacking his bags.

Just as he was finishing the coffee and thinking about going in out of the chill air, a violinist appeared. Alex took the opportunity to stand and offer James his hand. “Dance with me.”

A breathless laugh escaped. He settled his hand in his boyfriend's and got up to allow himself to be whisked into a waltz. He'd never liked dancing with Alex. The other man was much too domineering while he led, pulling and pushing James' body where he wanted it instead of giving James the chance to follow where he led, and for someone who knew a little something about dance, it was tantamount to torture to dance with someone who thought they were the bee's knees when they actually weren't. 

Still, he tolerated it for Alex's sake since Alex had gone to so much effort to make tonight special. His own body rose and fell gracefully through the sweeping motions of the waltz only to come up against the rigid posture and brutish movements of the man opposite him. James was careful not to allow anything but enjoyment to wash his expression.

As the strains of music finally came to a blessed conclusion, he pulled away with every intention of suggesting they go inside when his boyfriend dropped down on one knee and produced a ring box from his pocket. Shock stoppered his throat.

“Will you marry me, James?”

Panic. He glanced around upon realizing the sudden audience who'd been lured by the romantic atmosphere to watch. There were people all around them, their neighbors, people they'd been friendly with over the years, and that was when he realized Alex must have invited them tonight, made something so intimate and private into a public affair.

Breathlessly, he realized Alex was awaiting an answer, and there was only one he could give when surrounded by so many of the people they knew. He even recognized some of the faces from Alex's soccer team. And Alex was still waiting for an answer.

James felt tears on his own face. There was no reason he should be crying. It was like him laughing when he should be said. He cried when he should be glad. Thankfully, the situation warranted what everyone would assume were happy tears, so no one caught on that there was something wrong.

His boyfriend laughed a little and said for the guests, “I think I stunned him speechless.”

“Yes!” he finally exclaimed upon finding his voice. “Yes, Alex. Of course I'll marry you.” What else was he supposed to say when the proposal had been made a production of? Was he supposed to turn the proposal down when they were surrounded by their friends and neighbors?

Alex beamed up at him and removed the ring from its box to slip onto James' shaking hand. It was black titanium brushed to a matte finish and inlaid with a single diamond. The ring was very modern, very architectural, very utilitarian, very Alex.

Once it was on his finger, his boyfriend—his fiance surged to his feet and brought their bodies flush together, molding their mouths into something far more passionate than James was comfortable with showing in public. Eventually, he brought both hands up to press against Alex's chest to offer a subtle hint that he needed to back off. Alex did. Eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter and the chapter after are the ones you're all waiting for, so stay tuned.


	5. Entrechat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James competes for the principal position in their upcoming ballet and has a realization regarding his relationship with Alexander. Steve comes to the aide of another rape victim. Also? I loved writing Revekka.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise chapter! I wanted to get these two chapters out in the same week, as they more or less go together. You'll get the other chapter as usual on Friday.
> 
> There is brief mention of sexually transmitted infections in this chapter.

His head pounded something fierce. Dark sunglasses covered bloodshot eyes as James slipped inside Tavern on the Green and was led to the table he'd reserved last night. After the impromptu proposal and dinner party, at which he'd consumed far too much champagne, he'd moved onto the top shelf Vodka he kept hidden behind his containers of protein powder.

Dropping into the chair, he yanked at the ring encircling his finger but wasn't able to dislodge his engagement ring before the familiar scents of black vetiver and pipe tobacco arrived. Rivka folded herself into the chair across from him, reached over the table and clasped his left hand between hers. Cyrillic characters danced across her knuckles: Скончание, the end. The tenth finger contained a black rose. His twin had always had a flair for the morbid.

A shock of bright orange hair was styled up into a pompadour, the sides shaved down to fuzz and remaining her natural deep sable. Two tiny, black spiders crawled up her cheekbone toward the corner of her eye, which was done up in black kohl cat eyes. She smiled, emphasizing the contour of her thick cheekbones and the extra weight she carried on her body.

He was deeply in love with the fact that she could carry her weight with confidence, that she was comfortable in her own body and didn't feel the need to constantly police herself just to please people around her. His sister's relationship with her body size was something to be envied, especially considering his own insecurities about being bigger, more muscular than the average danseur.

“What's this?” she finally asked after meeting his glance.

Warmth heated his cheeks. “What do you think?”

“I think I need to find that ХУЙ and beat his brains into the concrete.”

James' eyebrows flattened. “Rivka, that is not a nice word to refer to my future husband.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Little fox...”

She lapsed into Russian, colorful words that would have made a sailor's ears turn red before returning to English. “No. Little wolf, this man cheated on you. Twice. Why do you think so small of yourself that you would accept his proposal? Why do you stay with someone who doesn't value you?”

He scuffed his fingers across her knuckle before pulling his hand back to tuck them both beneath the table. “He tried to be romantic, set up a beautiful table on the roof terrace, made sure the meal was on my approved list, brought flowers and candles.”

She spat, “ПизДа.”

He cringed.

Maybe it was seeing that cringe. Maybe it was because they were twins, but Rivka reached across the table again to grasp his shoulder. “It's only that I love you and hate that you're settling.”

“I didn't--” He cut himself off to take a deeper breath. “He asked me at a party. There were people all around us, our neighbors. Our friends. His teammates. How could I humiliate him by turning him down in front of so many people he surrounds himself with?”

Her mouth opened, no doubt with something vulgar perched on her tongue, but she eased her posture and settled back into the chair. “Don't marry him, little wolf. He will break your heart again.”

“He's changing. He is taking on more responsibility. There is a new organization on campus he's become involved with that is teaching him greater maturity. Maybe it will work this time.”

“And maybe I'm a unicorn. Look, if you marry him, and you ask me to be there, I will. You are the other half of my heart, and I would never let you stand at your wedding day alone, but that man is no good for you. Why you stay with him is a mystery.”

Their server arrived then, putting a swift end to the conversation. He was glad to have some breathing room. After they ordered, he directed the conversation elsewhere by saying, “Do you have a special someone you are seeing? The man yesterday.”

She allowed herself to be diverted to safer territory, and they spent most of the meal catching each other up on their lives. Her new man was an actor who was doing a stint on Broadway, one of those heartthrob types that anyone with a remote interest in dick would kill to be seen with. Except Revekka Barnes, who got about as much enjoyment out of the spotlight as a rabbit did surrounded by greyhounds. She wasn't sure how far the relationship would go considering the pressure and media frenzy she would be exposed to if their relationship ever got out to the media.

It was James' turn to curse up a blue streak as she recounted going on a date with her beau once and being accosted by the body police, who weren't shy about letting her know he could do much better. The thing was, his little fox was good about being comfortable in her body, but that didn't mean she couldn't be hurt by careless morons who wanted to make themselves feel better by tearing her down. She wasn't beholden to them and didn't need to justify her body size by addressing her eating habits and exercise routines. Whether she was plump by genetics or lifestyle choices, it was no one else's business, especially not a bunch of trolls who would have torn anyone down for dating a celebrity.

He encouraged her to do what made her happy. If that meant continuing to see the man and giving the finger to everyone who wanted to police her, then that was what she should do. Happiness shouldn't be dictated by couch critics.

They finished lunch and ordered a pot of tea to share. Now that he was removed from the flashback or whatever he'd experienced on the train by several hours, it didn't seem so pressing to discuss it with her. He wanted to avoid the subject altogether, but his little fox had a mind like a steel trap.

“When you called me last evening, you were very upset. Tell me.”

He pushed the tea cup around on its saucer to avoid the subject just a bit longer but finally asked, “How long was I in the hospital when my appendix ruptured?”

“What brings that up?”

“Please, just answer.”

She sipped her tea and returned the cup to the saucer. “It was very bad.” Rivka still stumbled over the English W which caused her to over-correct words beginning with v sometimes. 'Very,' therefore, came out sounding watery. “Your fever was dangerously high by the time Batya and Mamochka took you to clinic. The doctor was off making rounds outside Lyovikha. They had to wait until he returned.”

James smiled fondly across the table. He wanted to ask if that was what had inspired her to be a doctor.

“They said the operation was smooth and thought you would come home in a few days, but something happened. There was infection, they said.”

“I do not remember.”

“They kept you for two months, little wolf. It seemed like once you started recovering, the infection would come back. We would come and see you one week, and you would be active and looking well. The next week, you would become worse again.”

“I do not remember any of this. The way I remember, I was on clinic--” He gritted his teeth and corrected himself. “In the clinic for two weeks.”

She squeezed his hand and asked with a smile, “Why does English have so many goddamn words?”

It pulled a little chuff from him.

“Why are you asking about this?”

“I have been seeing things in my mind. There is a woman, a nurse, with the sweetest voice. We used to call her the angel. She frightens me, but I don't remember any of it. I don't know why.”

“Repressed memories?”

He glanced up sharply.

“You were young and sick. The mind does odd things. If the angel was real and you were truly terrified of her, it's possible you repressed memories to avoid dealing with the trauma afterward.”

That conversation remained with him for the rest of the afternoon. It followed him onto the metro and back to class where he allowed the dance to embrace him again, where he danced like a monster finally emerging from its cocoon. A blister formed and burst on his toe and Mrs. Jarvis sent him to medical to be treated for a sudden bout of shin splints. 

The physical therapist iced his legs to reduce the swelling and informed Mrs. Jarvis that he needed a lighter load for the next few days to give his body a chance to heal, a treatment plan he was not happy with. He needed to perform his solo in front of Mr. Jarvis on Monday. His legs would behave long enough to get through the routine, or he would cut them off at the knees.

Saturday, while getting in a few more practice hours to work on his solo, he emerged from the studio and drove the Mazda out toward Jefferson Market Library to pick up Alex, who had spent the morning researching a paper. They were supposed to get an early dinner at Sammy's Noodle Shop, but traffic was at a standstill on Sixth Avenue. He texted his fiance to let him know about the delay and drummed fingers against the steering wheel, only rolling down the window upon noting the screech of police sirens barreling past in the direction of the library.

Foot traffic jammed up on the sidewalk, so he leaned out to ask someone what was going on.

A woman wearing a head scarf came closer to say, “There was an attack nearby that's being investigated. Someone was raped and beaten.”

“In broad daylight?”

“Looks like. I think they're trying to get traffic cleared up now, so it shouldn't be too much longer.”

“Thanks.” James looked at his phone again as she continued on her way. Thinking that maybe Alex had been hurt, that his fiance was the victim, injected a shot of adrenaline into his system. He couldn't stop his hand from shaking.

Finally, he received a response. _“Safe. Walking 2 u now.”_

Relief sagged him back into the seat, and moments later, he could see the other man coming up the sidewalk with his satchel and a cup of coffee. He rolled down to the window to wave Alex over, and soon enough, the man was ensconced inside the car. There was extra color in his cheeks that James attributed to the bracing chill in the air.

His fiance greeted him by lifting James' knuckles to his mouth. “I think we should maybe cancel our plans tonight and just go to Carmine's. Would you mind terribly if I invited Victor and Morty?”

“I thought it was supposed to be a date tonight.”

“Sure, but we've got a game coming up on Thursday, and we need to go over a few combos. You don't mind, do you? It will still be a date. You can still hold my hand.”

James moved his hand off the steering wheel and rested it on Alex's thigh. “Of course. Invite your teammates.” His glance dropped to the ring encircling his finger. He should be happy. They'd been dating for so many years that marriage was the next step in their relationship, but he just couldn't get Brock and Jasper out of his head.

***

It was inevitable. Combine an ethics class where people's personal morals were used to answer hot button issues and a professor like Tony Stark, who seemed to delight in pushing people's buttons, and the end result was bound to explode. That point arrived as they were discussing the ethics of abortion, a topic many people were passionate about. Someone was bound to throw a punch. 

No one was surprised when it came from Steve Rogers. The fact that it took Teddy, Billy, and Clint to prevent the blow from landing, an act which likely would have led to Steve's expulsion, was surprising, as was the speed Stark displayed in rushing up to the conflict and dragging the instigator down into the pit by his ear and sitting him firmly on a stool near an exit.

“Cool your boots, big guy.”

Teeth gritted, Steve plopped onto the stool and stared straight ahead.

“Lester--”

“Bullseye,” the other instigator corrected.

“Because you pride yourself in hitting people in their weakest spots?” Steve snapped.

“Don't make me get the duct tape, Rogers.”

Lester sneered.

“Lester, you're out of my class,” continued Stark. “Verbal attacks on people willing to share very personal information in our discussions will not be tolerated. Get out. Don't let the door hit you where the good Lord split you. You'll be hearing from the dean shortly.”

Nearby, Carol Danvers, who was at the center of the apocalyptic meltdown, struggled to reclaim her composure after Bullseye had suggested she'd been asking for it when her relative had molested and impregnated her and therefore shouldn't have been morally allowed to have an abortion. Carol wasn't crying like a lot of people would have. Instead, she was spitting mad, and Steve was ninety percent sure that if he hadn't gotten there first, she would have been the one throwing the punch.

“Ms. Danvers, take a walk and get yourself together. Come back for the next class period.”

“I'm fine,” she bit out.

“Suit yourself, Captain.”

Steve inclined his head toward the captain, who was getting her degree late in life after retiring a decorated Air Force pilot. She returned the acknowledgment.

For the rest of class, Steve's knee bounced with barely-restrained energy. The adrenaline buzz had yet to wear off, and his new medications lifted the fog of depression enough to make him feel like a stick of dynamite. He had so much more energy now that he wasn't spending hours stuck on a carousel replaying past events in his mind, events he had absolutely no chance to change despite his brain's insistence they analyze each one. Repeatedly. He'd felt like a needle stuck in a groove.

Clint brought his things down to the auditorium floor once Stark dismissed the class so they could head to their new gym together, but the professor's voice stopped them before they could reach the door. Steve went back with head held low and looking particularly sheepish.

“I want to apologize for my behavior, Professor Stark.”

Tony waved off the sentiment. “I would have slugged the asshole, too. Guy like that? He needs a muzzle before he's let out in public.”

“Weren't you the one championing free speech a couple of weeks ago?”

“Free speech doesn't mean freedom from having your ass kicked when you're an asshole.”

“I'm pretty sure my right to punch someone ends where my fist enters their personal space.”

“Whoa. Chill, Captain Conscience. You trying to argue your way into getting in trouble? Look, I only asked you to stay behind to show you this.” Tony passed over his tablet. “I didn't want you to be hit with it while you were crossing the street or something.”

Heat rushed to his cheeks. “I think I've been hit with things while crossing the street one too many times, Professor.” He accepted the tablet to skim what turned out to be a breaking news story. The report detailed an incident near the library that involved a young man fresh out of high school who was found raped and badly beaten. By the time he reached the end, his hand shook.

Stark leaned passively against his podium.

“Why are you showing me this?”

“Come on, Cap. You know why.”

“How did you find out?” He could hardly speak past the stinging nettles in his throat.

“My husband was one of the EMTs who transported you to the hospital.”

“H-husband?”

Professor Banner stepped inside looking frumpy, his tie askance and curly hair sticking up in all directions. Stark greeted the man with a quick “hi, honey.”

And Steve thought he was going to be sick. Someone knew. One of his professors knew about his shame, about his inability to defend himself despite the bulk of his muscles and the piss and vinegar that filled up his bone bag instead of blood.

“I have to go,” he breathed. “I have to--”

“Hey,” Stark said before he could run away. “It's good to see you doing better.”

Steve turned to flee only to stop and face the man. “Did you know before you brought it up in class?”

Stark nodded once.

“Why--”

“Told you. This isn't a class that comes with trigger warnings. You have to put on your big boy shorts just like all the rest of us. What happened to you doesn't make you special.”

He thought he was going to punch his professor until Clint grabbed his bicep and tugged insistently. Just as his roommate was dragging him toward the door, he overheard Professor Banner head-slapping Professor Stark. There was definitely an “asshole” in there somewhere and was followed by Tony admitting that asshole came along with Stark genetics. Bruce hugged the man and murmured something about Stark's father.

Clint swung the door closed to prevent him from hearing any of the rest of it.

Still feeling panicky, he hurried from the building ahead of his roommate to drag in great gulps of crisp air, pausing to rest hands against knees while looking for his equilibrium. What was it Sam coached him with during therapy? In through the nose. Out through the mouth.

The miracle of it was when he felt the pressurized steam receding instead of worsening. His body obeyed his command to relax instead of fighting him on it like all the rest of the times, and it wasn't long before the tunnel vision faded to allow him to interact with his surroundings again.

Quietly, Clint signed to him, _“You okay, Steve?”_ The question was capped with the sign for 'mountain.'

He wobbled his hand back and forth in response. 

_“You need your inhaler?”_

He shook his head.

_“Wanna get some pumpkin spice lattes?”_

Steve made a sour face. Sometimes he felt like the only person on the planet who wasn't obsessed with pumpkin spice everything. Sooner or later, big business would release pumpkin spice hamburger or something equally disgusting for the general public to fawn over. That was the day Steve Rogers moved to the moon, thank you very much.

 _“Have you read the breaking news?”_ he finally signed.

_“It's all over social media.”_

_“Do you think it's the same guys? The same guys who--”_ Funny how he still had trouble acknowledging the real word for what had happened to him.

Clint arched a brow.

 _“Don't make me say it, Clint.”_ Steve pulled his fist back into 'archer.'

His roommate's face was resolute.

Even making the sign, a claw-like gesture that involved bringing two knuckles down on either side of a raised finger, made him feel strange. Finally, he signed, _“The same guys who raped me.”_

_“Probably.”_

_“I'm going to have to come forward, aren't I? Someone needs to identify them. This new victim might not be able to identify them.”_

_“I can't tell you to do that.”_

_“I know.”_

Silence stretched for several moments. People poured out of the building and parted like the Red Sea around them as another class let out. Steve swore his old heart murmur returned what with the way it was flipping around and skipping beats.

_“Can we go to my ma's for dinner tonight? I think I need to be out of Manhattan for a few hours.”_

_“Sure. Just let me text Bobbi and let her know I won't be around.”_

The thing was, Steve didn't want to. He didn't want to come out of anonymity, put himself on public display for the entire world to gawk at, but it was no longer a singular incident. The guys who'd hurt him weren't content to only victimize him, so if Steve didn't come forward and identify the men, then more people would be hurt. It was like Stark had said: he had to put his big boy pants on just like everyone else. Being victimized didn't make him special nor overwrite his responsibility to protect people, which wasn't the advice he would give anyone else. Each person had to decide for themselves how much they could handle. Twenty-four year old Steve Rogers was in a damn better position to handle the media frenzy than some eighteen year old kid fresh out of high school.

He kept his peace, content to exist alongside Clint as the two of them pounded the punching bags across town at a facility they'd only just joined. The new gym was a little hole in the wall that showed its age, but the equipment was all well-maintained and the atmosphere welcoming. None of the regulars bothered them except to check if they needed help spotting during weight training.

While resting in between his sets, wiping the sweat drenching his brow, Steve looked to the center of the warehouse space where an Olympic size boxing ring sat. Two men sparred there, one short but packed with solid muscle and the other leaner, more graceful. A woman standing outside the ring egged them on, sable hair pulled into a tight bun with wisps of white bangs escaping to frame her face.

The two men squared off like pros, and the fight commenced. It was quick and brutal. The shorter of the two fought with brute force. He didn't dodge blows so much as he barreled right through them, always pressing the taller man onto the defensive. His opponent fought with grace and skill. Between the two fighting styles, they were pretty evenly matched, and Steve found himself sitting at the edge of his seat watching with awe.

The leaner man hit his opponent hard, sending him sprawling to the mat, at which point, the squatter guy spat out a mouthful of blood, popped his neck, and pushed back to his feet. He retaliated with a hard right hook that made his opponent fall into the ropes.

“That's for getting blood all over my ring.”

“And this is for trying to seduce Jean.” The other man flipped into the air and delivered a double-footed kick square in his opponent's chest, sending him to the mat again.

Tension crackled in the air as both men found their footing, but just as Steve thought he would have to break them up, they both laughed and met in the center of the ring to shake hands. 

He relaxed and turned his attention briefly back to Clint. Seeing that his roommate was engaged on the elliptical doing his cool down, Steve approached the boxing ring to stand beside the woman.

“That was some fight,” Steve said.

When she spoke, it was with a thick, southern accent. “They ain't so bad. You box, sugar?”

“No, ma'am.”

Her laughter was husky and lyrical. “I ain't no ma'am.” She looked him up and down for a moment before thrusting her hand out. “Name's Marie, but when I'm in the ring, they call me Rogue.” The woman's grip was firm when they shook hands.

“Steve.”

“This here's Logan and our friend, Scott. Logan's my trainer. Bless his soul, but he didn't know what he was gettin' into when he agreed to train me. Fights like a tank, though.”

“They're pretty evenly matched. It was a bit of a surprise given the size difference.”

“You got something to say to me, GQ?” Logan growled.

Steve presented his hands in a show of peace. “No. Not at all, Sir.”

Logan chuffed and shot him a penetrating glare that sent alarm skittering down his spine. The man chose to ignore Steve instead and returned to his cool down exercises alongside Scott. Now that the tension between them had dissolved, it was clear the two men were close.

“Interested in learning how to box?” asked Marie.

“I'd be interested in learning self defense, but money's tight right now.”

“Well this here's our gym. Logan and me. I could see my way clear to givin' you some self-defense trainin' long as you do something in return for me.”

“What's that?”

“I got a friend who's gettin' a photography degree. She's needin' a model for some tasteful nude shots. You model for her, sugar, and I'll be happy to show you how to a throw a man twice your size through a wall. That sound reasonable to you?”

Steve wasn't sure. Given his current relationship with his body, he didn't think he could be vulnerable in front of a camera like that. He wasn't sure this friend of Rogue's would even want to see him naked given how soiled he was, but if it meant learning how to defend himself in future, then that might be worth the discomfort.

“Can I think about it?”

“Sure thing, but she'll be needin' to start shooting week after next. You let me know in the next few days, and I'll put you in touch with her.”

Steve made a split-second, and probably rather reckless, decision, and said, “You know what? Go ahead and set up a meeting between us. For coffee or something. I'd at least like to meet her before agreeing to take my clothes off in front of her.”

Marie didn't trail her glance down the length of him, just continued making eye contact, occasionally looking over to watch the other two men. Something about her put him at ease, and he didn't make a fool of himself by mumbling around her the way he normally did with beautiful women.

“Just gimme a second.”

He went back to listening to the whir of the elliptical until she returned from her phone call.

“Saturday. Ten a. m. Think Coffee. That work for you?”

He agreed. They shook hands on it, and Steve felt a little lighter when he walked out, bumping shoulders with Clint along the way, than when he'd gone in, something Clint didn't fail to remark upon. His roommate signed that perky tits like Marie's would put anyone in a good mood. Steve hip-checked him and suggested that it was rude to randomly assign a woman's tits the role of muse.

They headed back to their apartment for showers before leaving for his ma's place, and that was where Clint's day took a drastic turn toward the melodramatic. Bobbi Morse arrived not ten minutes after them dressed to the nines and wearing heels that would have broken Steve's neck if he'd tried walking in them. His roommate cursed and rushed into the living room still putting his hearing aides back in.

“What did I forget?”

Bobbi looked nonplussed with his casual attire and said, “We were supposed to have dinner with my boss. How could you forget?”

Clint made a distressed noise and glanced back and forth between Steve and Bobbi. “Steve needs me tonight. It was a rough day, and we were heading out to his ma's place for dinner.”

If looks could kill, Bobbi would have melted Steve like napalm. “This dinner has been planned for a month, Clint. How could you forget something so important? It could mean a promotion at work.”

“I just forgot, okay? Steve really needs to be out of the city tonight, and he lost his bike privileges and can't travel on the subway by himself right now.”

It was Steve's turn to look affronted and squawk indignantly, but he couldn't really deny any of that given how he'd almost crashed his Harley last month and had freaked out on the subway when bodies had pressed too near. The subway conductor had been forced to stop the train what with how he'd inadvertently terrorized the other passengers. There was no fucking around on public transportation with all the terror attacks going on worldwide.

“Steve is an adult man and doesn't need a babysitter when you made a commitment. Or have you forgotten that I'm the one you asked to marry you and not him?” She cringed a little and turned to address Steve. “Could I please speak to my fiance in private?”

Steve held up his hands in a display of surrender and beat-feet into his bedroom to close himself away. He only just noticed the moldy, dank smell of forgotten food, dirty laundry, and soiled bodies and nearly tripped over a pile of badly-stacked books on his way to the window to let in some fresh air. He hadn't noticed how bad he'd allowed the room to get until then.

Outside in the living room, he could still hear the murmur of hushed voices, of two people arguing who were trying not to be overheard. Dropping onto his bed, he clasped hands between knees. Distress made his chest feel tight. If he was so bad that he was having a negative effect on Clint's relationship, then it was time for drastic actions. He didn't want Clint to pay the price for his maladjustment.

Before, that thought would have led to a downward spiral. It would have pulled him onto the carousel from which only sleep could help him escape, and part of him wanted to take comfort in those old brain habits. Part of him craved it, didn't want to get better, just wanted to stop being. He would have slipped out his window onto the fire escape and left without a word.

But the medication smoothed the peaks and valleys of his brain so that his thoughts slid right past them. He still wanted to sleep. The meds kind of made him sleep a lot when he wasn't actively engaged in something physical, but it wasn't so pressing that he gave in to the desire.

Eventually, he forced himself to get up and find something semi-clean to wear. He stuffed books into a bag to do some studying at Ma's place. Then, after gathering a stack of dirty dishes to take to the kitchen, he emerged from his den. A hush fell over the living room.

He smiled sheepishly, having caught the couple in mid-rant. Those two fought like rabid dogs, always had, but they were also quick to make up. He didn't really doubt there would be angry make up sex going on as soon as he left and was glad to be spending the night away.

“I'm gonna go to Ma's, Clint. You stay here with Bobbi.”

“Steve, you don't gotta--”

He cut his roommate off. “It's fine. I'm fine. Just go and have dinner with Bobbi. I'll text you when I get there to let you know I made it safely.” He switched to signing. _“I want to do this on my own.”_

Finally, Clint nodded and signed, _“Be safe. If you get stuck, please call me.”_

Steve didn't get stuck. In fact, he was surprised by how truly uneventful riding the metro turned out to be. It was like he'd built this thing up in his mind to be some huge mountain over which he had to crawl, bloody and broken, to reach the other side, but the actual doing of it was less than a mole hill. He sat wedged between two elderly women and read on his phone until it was time to disembark.

His ma was surprised to see him. The house smelled divine, and he immediately went to the kitchen to open the oven door, an action which caused his ma to smack his knuckles. Inside, traditional coddle bubbled away inside a pot. Pork sausage, boiled bacon, potatoes, onions, and a cider sauce all melded into a mouthwatering smell that made the whole house feel like home again. He expressed as much in words, and they washed up to make soda bread together.

His grandfather, Paddy Burke, had died in an industrial accident years before his birth, and his own father had been a victim of a special forces operation while working with the Rangers, so Steve had grown up surrounded by Irish matriarchs. Ma's family had emigrated from County Kilkenny looking for greater working opportunities when Ma was just a tiny thing, so he remembered being rocked on his nana's knee listening to her spin tails of the old country's myths while traditional foods cooked.

Sometimes, he still remembered Nana's thick brogue as she spoke in Gaelic. He would give a lot to have paid more attention, to be able to carry on some of those Irish traditions, but he'd been an easily distracted child, often getting lost in whatever drawing or make-believe world that kept him occupied when normal children would have been out playing with neighbors. Playing with neighbors could have killed him given his awful immune system.

When Nana had died, and Ma had been forced to take more shifts at the station, he'd become lonely. He would sit at his window looking over the park behind their house to watch other children during long hours alone. He'd sit and feel like Rapunzel hidden away in a tower. Only Rapunzel's flowing golden locks had allowed her prince to rescue her. There had been no prince for Steve.

And in his imagination, it had always been a prince. That was how he'd known he was different from most boys his age. It was how he'd known he was gay. The joy of it was that his mother had hugged him and reassured him that he was loved regardless of who made him happy in his heart.

They ate quietly after the food was ready, and he would have been content to spend the evening cuddled against her were it not for the breaking story on the eleven o'clock news. The station wasn't naming the victim, but reports indicated he was just eighteen and still in the hospital. Steve tensed. He knew damn well why he felt such a kinship with the kid.

“I want to see him,” he eventually said.

“Are you sure, sweetheart?”

“Yes. Ma, I know what he's going through. Maybe I can help.”

“He might not want to see you.”

“I know, but I have to try. He needs to know he doesn't have to go through this alone.”

When Sara “Judy Hopps” Rogers knew he wanted something, not even a hurricane could stop her. The next morning, she had a name, hospital, and room number. Chase Stein was listed in stable condition and hadn't had any visitors, which just saddened Steve.

He knocked on the door and eased into the room to look at the gangly teenager, trapped between boyish youth an a full fledged man. He looked so damn small in the hospital bed. He laid on his side facing the windows, fingers moving across a tattoo on his forearm. It depicted a dinosaur in mid-strike.

Steve cleared his throat.

Chase rolled over to look at him. “You're not a nurse.”

“I'm Steve.”

He rolled back onto his side to look out the window again. “What do you want, Steve?”

“To see if there's anything I can do for you.”

“So you're what? An overgrown candy striper?”

Steve tangled his fingers together in front of him and realized what a horrible mistake it was meeting this kid. What did he have to offer when he'd only just started getting a handle on his own situation? He couldn't do anything to help.

He cleared his throat to ease the tightness of his chest. It was important that he sounded solid, certain, that he didn't stumble over the word. “I think the same people who raped you also raped me.”

That caught the kid's attention, and he turned back to look at Steve. “You? But you're gigantic.”

He cringed. “Just means it took an extra dose of date rape drug to incapacitate me.” And that was the first time he'd ever admitted that he'd been incapacitated during the event and therefore hadn't had any way to mitigate the outcome.

After a moment of silence, he indicated the chair. “Can I sit?”

Chase shrugged. “S'a free country.”

So Steve sat, and an awkward silence blanketed the room. He allowed it to stretch while searching for something to say. Finally, he said, “Do you have any family you can stay with after you get out?”

The kid chuffed but didn't answer.

“Friends?”

“What do you care?”

“I've been where you are and know how damn hard it is to get back up after this, and I had a best friend and loving mother to help me to my feet. I just want you to know that you don't have to do this alone or make the same mistakes I did.”

“No offense, Steve, but you don't know a damn thing about me.”

“That's true, but I'd like to.”

Another heavy silence descended, but Steve was patient. He didn't play with his phone or turn on the television to pass the time, just sat and waited until Chase told him to leave or decided to speak again. His patience was eventually rewarded.

“I'm afraid.” The admission was almost inaudible.

“Me too. All the time.”

“What are you afraid of? You're so damn huge.”

“Size doesn't matter when someone's determined to mistreat you, Chase. I'm afraid of everything sometimes: people finding out, those guys returning to hurt me again, myself.”

“Yourself?”

He swallowed heavily. “I couldn't protect myself, and it's not like I'm a small guy. If they could hurt me once, then someone could hurt me again.”

More silence arrived.

Steve finally said, “And I'm afraid of h-hurting m-myself. I want to sometimes. So much, because I want everything to stop. Mostly, I want to stop being afraid all the time.”

The kid finally rolled onto his other side with a twinge of discomfort and resettled. “Like there's so much noise in your head you just can't be still anymore.”

“Something like that. For me, it's a carousel. I get on, but I can't get off. The thoughts just keep spinning until I think I'm going to be sick.”

Chase looked at him for long moments.

“I just don't want you to have to go through this alone.”

“The police were here. They want me to pursue legal actions.”

“What do you want?”

The kid huffed. “To not be in this position.” A beat of silence passed. “You know what they're going to say about me? The justice system isn't friendly to rape victims let alone men who've been raped. I can't--” He choked on a cough, winced, and wrapped an arm around his middle. “I can't do it. I just want everything to go away.”

“I know. You don't have to do anything you don't want to.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm going to. I'll make sure they can't hurt either of us anymore.”

***

“Are you yourself?” Pietro asked.

James flinched, braced himself against the tile wall in the locker room urinal, and shook off after pissing. The horrible burn brought moisture stinging his eyes. He blinked them away and tucked back in to head to the sink to wash up.

“I am normal.”

Pietro gave him a doubtful look.

He wasn't about to admit to one of his colleagues that he'd started treatment for gonorrhea that morning after what was supposed to have been a normal appointment with his doctor to have his psych medications refilled. A three year relationship with his fiance and regular health visits should have meant it was safe to go without a condom. He'd made Alex get tested after Brock and Jasper. It should have been safe. He should have been able to take his fiance's word as truth.

The other man leaned his shoulder against the wall. “This new material we're working on. Are you ready to give your audition choreography?”

“Are you?”

“You don't like me much, and I can't figure why.”

James released a sigh and finally turned to face the man. “It's not that.” He picked at a loose cuticle on his thumb. “I just have a hard time being close to people.”

“I'm supposed to want this opportunity.” Pietro switched to Russian so they could speak more rapidly. “That's what danseurs do. We're cutthroat, willing to throw our brothers under a bus to keep our name in lights.” He paused then for a deep breath and returned to English. “I hope you win.”

An eyebrow jumped toward James' hairline.

“You're always helping everyone in class. We all look up to you. When we need something, we always come to you instead of going to Leo. You deserve this opportunity. More than that, you're the best danseur for this lead. You just are.”

He wasn't sure what to make of that confession as the two went their separate ways. James opened his locker to retrieve the costume he'd mocked up for the role. It was comprised of gray tights that had been ripped and soiled, a threadbare gray coat that faded to white at his forearms, and gray slippers. He'd added a spray of peacock feathers along the tails of the coat but had snapped the shafts so they stuck out in awkward directions to show the brokenness of the character.

Before emerging from the locker room, he stuffed some gauze inside his dance belt to soak up any discharge that might otherwise stain or dampen the fabric of his uniform. Finally ready, he left to meet the Jarvises in the practice auditorium. Dim lights added an atmosphere to the interior and kept the dancers from being distracted by their ballet master in chief and ballet master seated in the front row.

Leo went first. He wore blue to showcase the character's nobility, his blouse loose and adding extra dimension to his body. His body moved like a swan. The subtle grace of his choreography lulled James into a sort of trance where he watched the man flow like water across stones worn smooth by age. Everything about the other man screamed for attention as he floated across the stage. It was a very traditional piece, and James was certain Leonid would be given the lead role.

Next came Pietro. The man had chosen a red costume that was pristine and glittered under the stage lights. He stood out like a beacon to hold the viewer's attention enthralled. His body worked in a frenzy of quicksilver footsteps as he swayed and spun across the hardwood. He captured the character's frenetic energy impeccably, and James was certain Pietro would be given the lead role.

Finally, James took center stage. It was like the world stopped spinning. Nothing existed outside the beam of light highlighting him. Music arrived. He moved, lost himself in the technicality of his choreography as he anticipated every foot change, every pirouette, every leap. Then, he heard Natalia's voice in his subconscious. _'Let the dance break you open. Leave your raw, steaming guts on the floor. Dance, James. Feel, little soldier.'_

Violins screeched across the atmosphere, and his body twitched. Alex had betrayed him. His fiance must have slept with someone else after getting tested to have given him the infection. Had he been unfaithful after the proposal? Alex had broken him and left him in pieces, betrayed, overwhelmed but unable to leave the man who had been a constant in his life.

He corkscrewed into a tight spin of anger. 

Something inside the frozen core of his body cracked. He was angry. So goddamn angry. Rising, he cut his body into a series of leaps that ended with his broken shape on the floor again, palm cracking against the hardwood, body bending into a bow toward the ceiling.

There. The throbbing core of the Soldier, so desperate to escape but so dependent on his handlers that escape seemed impossible, so he would go back to them, back to the people who had hurt him because it was the only thing he knew. It was the only thing James knew.

But he had to rise. He had to get up. He had to stop letting Alex break him, so he flipped onto his back and pushed back to his feet and launched into a grand jeté that threatened to skim his fingers across the ceiling. He landed and whipped around. Fire leaped into his eyes. Defiant, he challenged them to see the twisted guts inside the core of his body. He offered it to them like a religious sacrifice.

His chest heaved for breath. A tiny sound escaped that was caught somewhere between a sob and a bark of laughter. He didn't realize his face was wet until Pietro squeezed his shoulder and stuffed tissues into his fist. Being exposed was too much, so he fled toward the stairs backstage where he allowed the laughter and tears to mingle on his lips. 

Alex had betrayed him. His fiance had made him feel so goddamn ugly. Then, just when he was beginning to put his life together again, his boyfriend had ambushed him with a marriage proposal and an STI. He knew what he had to do for the sake of his sanity. He had to leave Alex, end their engagement, and kick him out of the apartment. Money would be tight making rent on his own, but he would either find a way to make it work or move somewhere cheaper. He would be free.

Pietro gave him a few minutes before coming to check on him, a large, warm palm making circles against his back as he leaned against the stair railing. “What can I do?”

James dragged in a few calming breaths. “You are already doing it.”

After a few more moments, he straightened his posture. “I did not mean to break down.”

“I see why you did. James, that was beautiful.” A beat of silence passed. “That was incredible.”

He didn't know what to say to that and was grateful when his fellow danseur didn't press for an answer. They simply existed in each other's space without the usual pressures to be social. It reminded him a lot of how Steve was able to share space and take comfort in something as simple as physical presence.

They weren't given long, though, before someone called them back to the stage. James took first position next to Pietro, Leonid on Pietro's other side and waited. It was the longest minute of his life.

Mr. Jarvis approached and looked at Leonid. Mrs. Jarvis failed to nod. Leonid sagged.

He moved to stand in front of Pietro. Mrs. Jarvis failed to nod. Pietro looked giddy.

Their ballet master in chief stood in front of James. Mrs. Jarvis nodded.

“The lead role in our upcoming production goes to James Barnes. He will be our soldier.”

There was a smattering of applause, all from Pietro, and James just caught a flash of red hair as Natalia slipped out the back of the auditorium. He was stunned more than anything. The news hadn't really sank in past the grief of realizing his relationship was ending. He thought he thanked them for their faith. He was pretty sure he hugged Pietro and watched Leo huff his way off stage.

It was one of those surreal days that made him feel like he was floating, and he floated all the way home to his studio apartment only to find it inhabited by Alex, Morty, and Victor. The men wore their gold pins and seemed to be engaged in a heated argument that continued to strain the atmosphere even after James entered with his gym bag slung over his shoulder.

“What?” he demanded upon realizing the three men were staring at him.

Victor and Morty left with a nod from Alex, who sat down on the ottoman. Ivan hissed, the cat irritated at having his sunning spot disturbed.

“What's wrong, Alex?”

“I didn't do it, James. You have to believe me. I didn't. He's just looking for attention.”

“What are you talking about?”

James' glance dropped to the tablet sitting on the coffee table when Alex glanced toward it. He grabbed the device and woke it up to see the headline staring at him. “Rape Victim Comes Forward To Identify Violets Soccer Captain.” Beneath the headline existed an article. “Steve Rogers, victim of recent off-campus rape, identified himself and came forward with information incriminating Violets soccer star, Alexander Pierce, in his attack.”

Moments later, the cops pounded on the door.


	6. Fondue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fall out from Steve coming forward continues. Also, Steve and James have a not-date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've struggled with this chapter all week and finally decided it's as done as I can make it. There be some fluff inside to counteract all the angst we've been going through.
> 
> For help with the ballet terminology, I'm going to refer you [Here](http://www.abt.org/education/dictionary/)

Hysterical laughter turned his living room into a den of hyenas, but he couldn't make himself calm down or stop, and it was so inappropriate. There was nothing amusing about the situation. His boyfriend had raped a man he admired, a man he had hoped to have a lasting friendship with. Worse than just laughter, he was crying at the same time. Just when he thought the waterfall had ended, he would remember dressing Steve in Alex's suit. The tears would come fresh then.

Rivka brought him a cup of tea and sat beside him. Ivan snuggled up between them. “Pseudobulbar affect,” she murmured around the rim of her own tea cup.

“What?”

“It is neurological disorder. Makes you laugh and cry at inappropriate times and sometimes with no obvious provocation. You should discuss it with your doctor.”

Well, that explained one mystery, but his throat was raw from the hiccuping laughter.

“Do you believe him?” his twin asked.

“Yes.”

Her expression asked for an explanation even if she remained silent.

“When he walked in and saw Alex's face--” A sip of tea helped him swallow down the knot in his throat. “He saw his own doom. How could I have ignored? Rivka, I dressed him on Alex's suit.”

“You did not know.”

Setting aside his tea, he burrowed hands in hair in a doomed attempt to stop the carousel spinning his thoughts in circles. There was no escaping the truth. Alex had raped someone, possibly two people if the attack near the library was also the work of his-- The shitty thing was that he couldn't turn his emotions off. They'd been together three years. Part of him would probably always love the man, but he could love someone and still be disgusted by their actions.

In a sudden burst of anger, he yanked off his engagement ring and threw it across the room with a ragged shout. “He raped Steve, little fox. He may have raped another man. He cheated on me twice that I know of. He gave me gonorrhea.” Another bubble of laughter spilled out.

“You need not justify breaking it off with him. You are done with him, yes?”

“I could almost forgive the cheating and lying and manipulation, but Steve? He will face a firestorm just to get justice. That I will not forgive.”

“Have you tried calling Steve?”

James shook his head. “He would not wish to hear from me.”

“I think he would, little wolf. You did not knowingly make him face Alex. To hear you support him might make him feel less alone, like he won't have to grieve a lost friendship too. Remember. You are a victim in this as well.”

“You think?”

“Darling, Alex's lawyer will put him on trial. I think he can use all the support he can get.”

He snuffed back the snot streaming from his nose until Rivka shoved a tissue in his hand. A pile of balled up Kleenex was already scattered around him. He unzipped his hoodie and stuffed Ivan inside to carry the cat with him while going for his phone. Even then, he hesitated.

It took a tremendous effort to finally compose a text.

**ME: I'm so sorry. I didn't know. If you need anything, please text.**

Several minutes passed in which he rested his chin on Ivan, who stuck his feline head in the valley where the two sides of his hoodie met. The cat vibrated against his chest.

**STEVE: i don't no wut 2 say**

**ME: You don't have to say anything.**

**STEVE: i don't no if we can be friends**

**ME: I'm not asking for friendship. I only wanted you to know that I support what you're doing.**

**STEVE: but ur in relationship w him**

**ME: I'm NOT in a relationship with him anymore. Do you think I could date a person knowing they've hurt someone like that?**

**STEVE: don't no wut 2 think rite now**

**ME: I'm not asking you for anything. Just let me know if you get lost and need a ride again.**

**STEVE: ur a jerk 4 bringing that up :)**

**ME: I am.**

**STEVE: r u going 2 b ok**

**ME: Yes. Are you?**

**STEVE: i don't no**

**ME: It's okay not to know.**

**STEVE: thx for txting i didn't want u 2 b hurt in crossfire**

**ME: So considerate, but I want to see him nailed to the wall for this.**

**STEVE: gotta go thx again**

**ME: Stop thanking me for doing the decent thing. Go. Be safe.**

Moments later, Steve sent him a link to another Cummings poem. He followed it, and suddenly a proverbial shaft of sunlight broke through the mulish, gray clouds. _'i will wade out / til my thighs are steeped in burning flowers / I will take the sun in my mouth / and leap into the ripe air / Alive / with closed eyes / to dash against darkness / in the sleeping curves of my body / shall enter fingers of smooth mastery / with chasteness of sea-girls / will I complete the mystery / of my flesh / I will rise / After a thousand years / lipping / flowers / And set my teeth in the silver of the moon.'_

James held his phone close and dropped kisses atop Ivan's head.

In all the awfulness, he'd forgotten being named the lead in the company's new production, forgotten everything but the havoc left in Alex's wake. His phone chimed again. Thinking Steve might be sending another poem, he checked the screen. So that was what it felt like to be dashed against the rocks by strong ocean currents: battered, broken, raw.

Alex' face flashed on the screen. Like earlier, he let it go to voicemail and curled up beside Rivka to snuggle against her, and if there was a pint of ice cream in his future, it was okay to not tell his dietician. Anyone would forgive him for indulging when he felt like the world was ending.

Neither of them got much sleep that night.

Or the following night.

By the third day after the arrest, James was a basket case. His phone had been ringing near to non-stop, to the point where he started turning it off at night and when in class to avoid the distraction. It was either Alex attempting to get in contact with him or one of Alex's teammates, a fact which he found more troubling. The absolute worst was coming home one evening to find Victor loitering outside the apartment building, Victor, who gripped James' elbow hard enough to bruise and used an intense sort of voice to instruct James to _'answer his goddamn phone when Mr. Pierce called'_. The man seemed very interested by the lack of an engagement ring on James' finger.

That concerned him enough he decided to see Alex to formally end their relationship. He didn't want any misconceptions that his former fiance could beg sweetly enough to get back in his good graces. Upon suggesting the idea to Rivka, he earned one of her epic scowls and her insistence she go with him. The fact that her boyfriend, Dino Manelli, came along for the ride was unexpected.

The interior of the precinct was too sterile and crowded. James hated the process of being searched. He trembled at the idea of Alex being locked away in such a bleak place. Cheer had been sucked out of everyone who stepped through those doors, a feeling that wasn't lessened by being taken to a cubicle and urged to sit. A telephone receiver rested in an alcove next to him. Through plate glass, he could see a chair and another handset. 

So they wouldn't even be allowed to breathe in each other's space, wouldn't be able to hear each other's voice except through a receiver. The realization made him sick. Feeling any sort of affection or concern about Alex made him sicker. The feelings were supposed to have gone away.

His chest tightened when Alex finally arrived wearing a gray shirt and pants and escorted by a warden. That concern only got worse upon taking in the discoloration and bags under Alex's eyes. The man looked wane. He looked like a king toppled from his dais awaiting execution until catching sight of James. It made him brighten considerably.

Visiting was a mistake. James didn't know how he would look into the eyes he had once loved and not try to offer comfort. Knowing that just made everything worse.

Alex picked up the handset first.

James mirrored the motion.

Alex said, “You haven't answered your phone.”

“No, I have not. I am not normal.”

“Say that you love me. Say that you don't believe their accusations.”

“I cannot say that,” he confessed.

It was like all the air had been let out of the man's balloon. He pressed a hand over his eyes. Said hand trembled gently. A ball of moisture rolled from beneath it. “Don't say that. You're supposed to be with me unconditionally. We're getting married. I don't think I can do this without you.”

James couldn't speak past the knot in his throat. He desperately wanted to reach through the glass and rest a comforting hand on Alex's blond head, wanted to say something to give him hope. Finally, he swallowed and said, “You raped him, Alex. I saw the look on his face when he met you.”

“He was on drugs!” The outburst punched a hole in the atmosphere. Quieter, he continued, “The guy was on drugs, baby. Even the newspaper admits he was high on ecstasy. How in the Hell is he so certain it was my face when he was gorked out of his mind?”

“I don't--” He took in a shuddering breath only to steel himself, to climb into the ice of Lyovikha. “Maybe I would have been more inclined to believe you I had not caught you balls deep inside Jazz and Brock. Maybe if you had not--”

Alex interrupted, “Don't throw that in my face again. You said you forgave me, but you bring it up every time we argue, and its not proof I raped that kid. You have to believe me, sweet boy.”

James smacked his palm down on the desk when something inside him snapped. “Stop it. You do not get to do this to me anymore. You do not get to twist my feelings.” And if he sounded confident, it was only because the iceberg rose to comfort him, to insulate him. “You _raped_ someone.” He sucked in a deep breath. “You infected me with gonorrhea, and you raped my friend! I am through allowing you to turn this around on me. I didn't do anything wrong. Stop blaming me.”

Alex may have flinched. He also may not have. James couldn't say reliably past the sudden anger that settled like drying cement in his chest.

Silence blanketed them. Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was just coincidence, but James suddenly couldn't breathe. He clawed at the collar of his button down in an effort to let more air past his constricting wind pipe, but nothing shifted.

A black dress. A white apron. A red cross. Chunky heels knocked against polished concrete. Lights flickered over head. The damp smell of musk made the air cloying. The angel came. He huddled under his sheets. As long he didn't move, she wouldn't see him. The cough wouldn't stop. It shook his thin shoulders. The handkerchief pressed against his mouth came away dark with blood.

She flung the sheet back. “My sweet Yashka. It's time for your medicine.”

He didn't want it. Her needle stung like a striking snake. He didn't want her medicine.

Weak hands pushed against her to no avail. The shot burned into his frail body. He sobbed. His struggles did no good. She simply rolled him tightly in his sheet, so tight he couldn't find the strength or leverage to move his arms. He was a mummy, the body of a fallen king wrapped in its shroud to be walled up inside a tomb where time and desiccation would leave him a shriveled husk.

He couldn't breathe. She held him tightly against her chest, sat in a rocker, and swayed gently. Her black eyes bored into him, and he couldn't breathe.

Someone pounded against something. As his senses recovered, he could blearily see Alex beating on the plate glass separating them and shouting for help. Alex looked terrified. He cared. He cared so strongly to react like that. It was only a secondary realization that he was looking up from the floor instead of still in the chair he'd previously occupied. Footsteps rushed in his direction. Men and women crouched around him. Still, he could hear Alex's booming voice in the background screaming that he loved him, roaring that Victor and Morty would take care of him.

He didn't quite understand his surroundings until much later, when he woke from a nap inside a hospital room. A monitor beeped rhythmically nearby. The air was cool and moved freely in his lungs. What he wasn't expecting was to lift his head from the pillow and find Steve sitting with a sketchpad on his lap and the soft scratch of a pencil moving across the page.

“Steve?” he croaked.

Steve lurched straighter, his pad clattering to the floor in his haste to come nearer. “Hi. Becca was just here. I sent her home to shower and get some rest. Natalia was here earlier this morning.”

“I must have been asleep.”

“You've been in and out of consciousness for a couple of days now. Can I get you anything?”

“Water?”

He allowed Steve to maneuver the bed into a reclining position and opened his mouth to accept some ice chips from a spoon. The moisture was Heaven. That was when he stilled. A split second of panic followed in which he shoved the sheets back and started to get up.

“Whoa! What are you doing? You need to take it easy.”

“I missed two days of classes. They will fire me from lead role and give to someone else.”

“Hey.” And when James insisted on getting out of bed and immediately lurching as his equilibrium deserted him, Steve caught his shoulders and continued, “Hey, Buck. Slow down.”

“Buck?”

Color rushed into the other man's cheeks. “Buchanan. It was either Bucky or Jimmy, and Becca said you hate Jimmy with the passion of a fiery sun.”

“Yes, but now I sound like a male deer.”

That caused a soft ruffle of laughter from the other man. Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “Natalia said you've been given some emergency personal time, so your job isn't on the line here. Congratulations, by the way. I know the timing sucks, but you must be so proud of yourself.”

He swallowed several times and eased back onto the bed. It was no use when his legs felt like jelly anyway. After a few moments, he cleared his throat and asked, “What am I here for?”

“The hospital wouldn't tell me. 'M not family, but Rebecca said you were dehydrated and your electrolytes are all out of whack from not eating the way you should for your level of physical activity. They gave you an EKG to check your heart, and your heart rate was dangerously elevated. She called it tachycardia. They gave you medication to stabilize the rhythm.”

He should probably consider it a miracle that he hadn't had a heart attack from the level of stress and anxiety that had become a common part of his life recently. Funny considering he was playing the Winter Soldier. The iceberg residing heavily in the middle of his chest hadn't protected him from the upheaval as much as he would have liked.

James was quiet for a while, resting on his side and watching the world move outside the window. Hospital staff came and went to their cars, and he found himself wondering what their lives were like, wondering how they dealt with the strain of being emotionally fragile humans. He could only imagine how they managed without the legacy of Lyovikha.

Haltingly, words catching at the edge of his throat, he told Steve about growing up there, about the isolation of living in a small mining community and how the wide open spaces, the whiteness, still somehow managed to be claustrophobic. Worse were the entire weeks wherein it was too cold to go out for anything more than essential trips, so they would spend the time indoors behind windows covered with thick blankets to block the cold and the light. It had been as if the rest of the world had died, leaving them in an old womb and unable to be delivered. 

He told his companion about the frigid nights of sub-zero weather spent huddled around the family's wood burning stove pressed between Rivka and their mother's solid warmth and about bundling in as many old sweaters as possible to go into the woods with Batya to cut and haul wood. Yasha, a lad of four, had trailed along behind his papa dragging an old snow sled that no one in Lyovikha had dared use for play when it was too essential for work. His papa, whose eyes had once been piercing blue, would fade throughout the winter, face becoming rough and chapped from the icy winds, and every winter had made Batya look more like everyone else. Hell was not a pit of sulfur; it was a frozen wasteland where nothing lived but the husks of snow-laden trees.

The worst, he said, had been seeing the weathered faces of the people around them and their dead eyes. Because Lyovikha was the place where decency went to die. Desperate people had resorted to desperate things after the competing mining outfits had shut down, which meant crime skyrocketed.

His voice scraped over the razor edges of old memories while telling the other man about an attempt to abduct Rivka and him to be sold into human trafficking. The only reason they had escaped was because Batya had found them, was because Batya, a firebird, had torn into their captors and hadn't relented until the men had been bleeding out on the ground before bundling his children back to the safety of their mama's side. They hadn't left Mamochka's sight again.

Steve listened, not in the way Alex had pretended to listen while reading over playbooks, but with rapt attention, emotions flickering across his countenance with each new story. He listened like he was truly interested in the stories of the old country and how Mother—James stopped to explain that Mother was not their mama but Mother Russia—had been so callous with her _rebyata_ , her children.

Eventually, his voice grew too hoarse to continue, at which point, Steve, who had a delightfully beautiful habit of talking with his hands, took over by recounting memories of his nana imparting all the wisdom of the old country in Ireland. Steve had this way of lighting up when he sank into the memories. It was clear they were comforting to him.

And James was enraptured. Listening to stories of being raised by two headstrong Irish women somehow lifted the care from his shoulders. He found himself laughing about how Steve's nana had intimidated his father, Joseph Rogers, to the point she had backed him into a bathtub full of cold water without laying a single finger on him after he'd had a fight with Steve's mother. Of course, these were all memories Steve experienced second hand, as his papa had died before his birth.

It made James sad, and as soon as Steve left a while later, he grabbed his phone and called Batya, who now lived across the country, to remind the man how much his son loved him and appreciated everything he'd done. It made Batya chuckle and demand to know what he wanted, because neither of his _rebyata_ were any good at calling regularly and sharing their emotions. The old man's voice had become rough with age and smoking, but there was something incredibly comforting about it.

They talked for more than an hour, at which point, his mamochka took over the phone to heckle him for being a bad son and not keeping in regular contact. He invited them both to the premiere of his show, which was still a few months away. They were elated for him.

He was exhausted by the time he got off the phone and was grateful the hospital staff only came to check his vitals. Rivka stopped by that evening just before the end of visiting hours to have dinner with him. He didn't tell her about Victor lurking outside his apartment. There was no need to worry her.

The hospital released him the following morning. Instead of making Rivka skip classes, he took a cab home intending to grab his dance things and head to the studio. What he didn't anticipate was walking into the apartment and finding Victor lounging on the sofa and Ivan closed up in the bathroom.

“What is this?” James demanded.

“Mr. Pierce sent me to check on you. The hospital wouldn't give 'im info 'bout your condition.”

It was only a moment later when James caught sight of the engagement ring on the end table.

Victor nudged it toward James and said, “Musta dropped this doing the cleaning. Put it back on 'fore you lose it again.” The man's voice was like gravel.

“You have no right to be in my home uninvited. Leave.”

The other man surged to his feet. He was tall and broad and wore one of those thick beards that made him look like a wild animal given the smallness of his pupils and irises. He stalked forward, a hunter, until their chests brushed. The gold pin glinted from his collar.

James lashed out with the intent of forcing the other man out of his personal space before escorting him to the door. The blow never landed. Victor caught his wrist in a bruising grip, stopped it mid-strike like it was nothing.

“You're under my protection while Pierce's indisposed.”

“I don't need your protection.”

“That cocksucker who fingered Pierce was in your hospital room for three hours.”

Refusing to be cowed in his own home, he pulled himself to his full height and snapped his backbone rigid. “I don't have a relationship with Alex anymore. Get out.”

Victor laughed, actually laughed as though that was the most amusing thing ever said. Then, he padded back to the sofa and flopped down to continue reading a sports magazine. “Put your engagement ring on, James, and you better keep that cat away from me.”

He should call the police instead of standing there dumbstruck. The one thing he shouldn't do was put the ring back on and go about his life like there wasn't a rabid predator camped out inside his home telling him what to do. Why he capitulated with Victor was a mystery. Maybe he just didn't want a confrontation when he had to go to class. That sounded like fair enough reasoning.

Engagement ring in place, he padded to the walk in closet to get his gym bag and some clothes, pausing upon noting the stack of luggage that had been in the corner for months was now gone, the bags tucked away inside the walk in and the clothes hanging from their hangers.

Victor had been in his home, handled Ivan, and put away his luggage. He was intimidated by the actions, by the presumption of it all, enough so that he left the apartment without a word to Victor, Ivan tucked away inside a cat carrier, because he was not leaving his friend alone in the apartment with that animal. It didn't occur to him to make Victor be the one to leave.

Natalia greeted him at class, gaze pointedly resting on the engagement ring.

“Not a word, Natashenka,” he groused while stuffing the carrier into her hands.

A red brow arched.

He offered her a pleading look.

She shrugged and made kissing noises at Ivan the Terrible, and the pair disappeared into the studio space so Nat could start her warm-ups while James went to get ready. 

Ivan was a hit. He preened under all the attention but was clearly more interested in the women, which was nothing unusual for the cat, who had always had an adverse reaction to other men. James found they'd taken the cat out of his carrier by the time he entered the studio space, where the ballerinas cooed over how ugly he was. It made James frown. His cat was not ugly.

Mrs. Jarvis called them to attention before long with little more than a curious expression given to the hairless cat now resting atop his carrier chewing on a meat strip. She laid out the day's lesson and walked them through a series of steps leading up to the first pas de deux, which required a lift. 

It was a simple move. He elevated his left leg, knee crooked, and leaned back to create enough counterbalance to allow Natalia's buttocks and torso to rest in the cradle formed by his thigh and side. She posed beautifully, arms extended, legs angled to showcase her ability to stretch and create elegant lines. The lift evaporated like water when he allowed her to slide down onto the floor.

The pas de deux led into a difficult group dance wherein the Soldier returned to his overlords to refuse their commands. He wouldn't bring the Widow into their clutches to be turned into a mirror image of himself. So they, portrayed by four imposing men from the corps, stood over him like judges seated on high while others came to remind him of his place, to pull him apart a fiber at a time, to torture.

He tried to flee, a double cabriole performed with two skipping steps and concluding with a leap as his legs scissored twice before he settled on the hardwoods again. An assemblé into a razor sharp balancé, a series of dipping steps, and then into a variation called the pas de valse that were delicate and lacy as he was driven back and forth across the stage by his tormentors. When they pressed close, when he had nowhere left to go, he moved into quick ballotté steps wherein he bounced back and forth from foot to foot like a wind up robot whose key hadn't wound down.

But James had trouble breaking the themes of the choreography into its basic emotional points the way Natashenka had instructed. The whole thing wound up disjointed. For the first time in his career at the NYCB, he found himself the focus of Mrs. Jarvis' ire, as she constantly interrupted to correct his form or ask him to put more of himself into the footwork. It was a demeaning afternoon, as he'd never been the cause for stoppages before.

By the end of the day, he was exhausted, drenched in sweat, and smarting something fierce. He hurried into the locker room to shower and change only to find Leo chuckling with some of the other corps de ballet. Their glances followed him across the space while he readied to leave.

He'd had enough with the whole world at that point and planted himself in front of them. “Do you have something to say to me?”

Leonid looked up. Everything about the man from his slicked back hair to his black eyes screamed snake. He said, “We just wonder when Mrs. Jarvis will realize her mistake and pull you.”

“The same time she realizes you're in talks with Mr. Bolle to join the American Ballet.”

The other man stiffened only to dissolve into a husky laugh. “You know nothing about my career.”

“And you know nothing about me. Keep it that way.”

Nothing could pry the flinch to the surface when they went back to their snickering. He was only slightly relieved by Pietro slinking from the shower room to join him while they dressed. The other man said nothing, just garbed himself in street clothes beside James in a show of solidarity.

The last person James expected to see upon exiting the locker room was Steve leaning against the wall dressed in gray slacks, a cornflower shirt with sleeves rolled up to his thick forearms, and a gray check vest. A coat was draped over his shoulder. A thin tie completed the outfit.

James was suddenly struck by how incredibly attractive Steve was. The man was broad with lean hips and strong thighs, but his face was delicate and classically structured. His eyes were such an intense shade of blue James wondered if the other man could look straight into his soul. The sudden urge to mold himself against Steve's frame and kiss him was overwhelming.

He promptly tucked his left arm behind his hip to hide the engagement ring and stepped forward, the loose folds of a gypsy skirt swirling around his legs. He worked the ring off his finger and tucked it into a pocket of the skirt. The muted tingle in his arm was more pronounced that day.

“This is a pleasant surprise.”

Color rose into the man's cheeks. He rubbed the back of his neck and was unable to hide a blush. “I was in for a third round of interviews and thought I'd stop and see how you are.”

“Any news?”

“They offered me a contract. Looks like I'll be starting on the design team Monday morning.”

He couldn't keep the pleasure off his face. “That is wonderful news. We should celebrate. Let me take you to dinner.” He couldn't be sure how much his desire to take Steve out was due to wanting to spend time with him or not wanting to go home where Victor had apparently made himself comfortable.

“I don't know if--”

James deflated. “Of course. You probably don't feel like being in public right now. Forgive, please. I should not have been so forward.”

“No!” The other man stepped closer. “No, I wanna have dinner with you. I just-- When I said I didn't think we could be friends, I thought I may have hurt you.”

“It did not feel good hearing it,” he admitted.

“I was in an emotional place when you texted. Please. Can we try again?”

He nodded.

Steve thrust a hand out. “Hi. My name's Steve Rogers.”

He accepted the hand in a firm grip. “James Barnes.”

“Bucky,” Steve murmured with the beginnings of a twinkle in his eye.

James released a put-upon sigh. “If you must. I will be your Bucky.”

For some reason, the comment caused fresh color to rush into the man's face until the tips of his ears were beet red, and he allowed his glance to trail across the floor, anywhere but meeting James' eyes.

An awkward feeling blanketed the atmosphere until he cleared his throat and said, “I will go home and change into something more appropriate. Would it be normal if-- Would it be all right if I picked you up at your apartment?”

“Yes.” Steve was a little breathless. “Yeah. Let me get you. My address.”

James received a text moments later from Steve with the directions to his apartment. It wasn't a date. Things with Alex were weird. Steve was likely feeling vulnerable. It wasn't a date, but the butterflies in his stomach said otherwise.

Victor was still there after James dropped Ivan off with Rivka for the night and went home to change. By the time he got there, he'd returned the engagement ring to his finger.

***

_“It's not a date,”_ Steve signed furiously while trying to ignore the raucous laughter of his roommate. And it wasn't. It wasn't a date. Right? God, he'd never felt so confused in his life.

Steve finished carrying the last of the dirty dishes from his room to put them in the dishwasher, which wasn't to say that he intended to invite anyone into his bedroom. It was still a mess, just less so than before. Besides, it wasn't a date, and there certainly would be no sex involved. He wasn't even remotely ready for anything like physical intimacy.

He leaned against the door jamb for a moment and tried to focus on Clint. The man was lounging on the sofa, back against the cushions and feet dangling over the arm rest, but Steve's vision was a little blurry. It was Clint who noticed the sheen of sweat on his brow and the tremor in his hands.

He signed, _“Eat something before you go. Your sugar's dropping.”_

Steve glanced at his hand and clenched it to still the tremors. That just made his whole fist shake. Stubbornly refusing to do anything about it would ruin his not-date, so he grabbed a bottle of juice from the fridge in an attempt to balance his glucose levels without spoiling his dinner with a snack.

The moment he opened the front door after the knock and saw James wearing a dark blue, double-breasted suit with a gray shirt and striped tie, Steve doubted for just a second his reserved stance on sex. James Barnes was easily the most scintillating man on the planet, and if Steve didn't say something, things would wind up getting weird, and weird was bad.

He cleared his throat. Nothing came out.

James' lips curled at one corner. Something mischievous lurked in the endless depths of his frost-bitten eyes. Then the man clenched his plush bottom lip between white teeth, and Steve was so done with trying to be a reasonable adult.

“C-c-c--”

Clint muttered, “Oh for fuck's sake,” and shoulder-checked Steve out of the way. “Come in. Steve needs just a minute or two to finish getting ready. Good God, what kind of cologne are you wearing? I'm completely straight, but I might be tempted to eat you up.”

A beautiful blush brought color to James' cheeks. “One Million by Paco Rabanne.”

Steve inhaled the light fragrance of mint, orange, cinnamon, and amber. The dark undertones of leather and patchouli brought about a rather embarrassing situation where his dick remembered what it was designed for. He'd never experienced anything so heady as smelling the unique combination of James Barnes mingled with his cologne.

“I'll j-j-ju-- Yeah. One minute. Clint.” He managed a hard glare at his roommate to remind the man not to embarrass him before rushing back to his bedroom to finish putting on brightly polished shoes to go along with the gray check suit of earlier in the day.

And if he stopped by the bathroom to spritz on some Pi cologne and allow his penis to realize it really wasn't interested in getting wet tonight, well, no one needed to know but himself. How he was going to last the evening standing beside that man while smelling that good was a total mystery.

By the time he returned, he found the two men inspecting one of Clint's compound bows, a subject James seemed engaged in. That focus drifted when Steve entered the room while pulling on his jacket. He was struck again by the elegant lines of the dancer's body.

It was not a date. The fact that James opened Steve's door for him did not change that. Neither did pulling around Columbus Circle and turning the car over to valet attendants. Inside the lobby of Per Se, James settled a palm against Steve's lower back—which still did not make it a date—and escorted him to the host table where they apparently had reservations. Steve was too busy drinking in the opulence around them to notice much else as they were seated at a table for two. Still not made a date when James pulled his chair out for him to seat him at the table. But boy how it made his heart flutter.

Swallowing heavily, he made himself comfortable and leaned across the table. “This is too much, Buck. I live hand to mouth. This is not the sort of place I can afford.”

The other man smiled. “Did I or did I not say that I was taking you do dinner? That implies you needn't worry about things like that. Sit back. Relax. We're celebrating.”

“Only if we're celebrating your promotion, too.”

James waved a hand. “If we must.”

Steve had no experience with fine dining, so when asked what he would like, he deferred to James and asked him to order for both of them. They wound up with red wine and a nine course tasting menu that turned out to be delicious if alien in plate presentation. He really didn't think much of the line of sauce across the plate with a small piece of something edible as decoration. Coming from a healthy Irish family, it wasn't food. It was something spat out by the replicators aboard the Enterprise in the original series. But God, did it taste amazing.

And James. James was charming in a way Steve hadn't experienced before. The other man was so incredibly cultured and could talk about music, literature, dancing of course, and a host of other topics that left Steve feeling slightly overwhelmed and under-educated, but never once did his not-date make him feel stupid, nor did the man ever become frustrated with his questions. On the contrary, he seemed to enjoy the participation.

By the time they finished their meal, he felt a pleasant sort of buzz and showed open delight when their wait-person came out with a tray of colorful macaroons. It was still totally not a date when James, comfortably relaxed, selected one and offered it to Steve. Passionfruit burst across his tongue in a bright display that made him close his eyes and groan.

“I think that's the most amazing thing I've ever tasted.”

“Pistachio and lemon are my favorites.” James was quiet a moment before continuing, “There is a Halloween party for the company next weekend. Would you attend. With me?”

Steve forced the butterflies deeper into the pit of his stomach. “I don't want to rush you into anything. You've only just gotten out of a relationship.”

The other man swallowed a mouthful of wine. “We could. As friends.”

“Can I think about it?”

“Of course.” If disappointment colored James expression, he hid it well.

The thing was that James made him feel lightheaded in the sort of way that suggested something special but had come into his life at the absolute worst time. There were so many complications when it came to becoming close with the man that he wasn't certain how far he wanted to take things. Had he met the dancer before the Pi Eta Chi Chi House, he would have already been full throttle head over heels for him. But that wasn't their reality.

So he allowed himself to be escorted outside with a hand on the small of his back and accepted having the car door opened for him while breathlessly trying to claw at the edges of the mountainside to prevent himself from plunging into what would most likely break his heart. His mind and body were broken. All he had left was his heart.

Thankfully, they avoided the after-dinner awkwardness about exchanging a kiss, as Steve stepped out at the curb after a fond good-night to walk up to the apartment alone. The moment that blood red Mazda pulled away from the curb, he wanted to call it back, wanted to continue basking in the comfortable, easy repartee he felt with James.

It was with a wistful sigh and regret that he keyed into the apartment to find Clint sitting on the sofa and surrounded by a mountain of Chinese take out. His roommate regarded him wordlessly while Steve hurried past to change into pajamas. When he returned, he moved boxes aside in order to sit.

_“Not a word,”_ Steve signed.

_“I wasn't gonna say anything!”_ The timber of his friend's voice suggested the lack of hearing aides.

A few beats passed.

_“But really, that guy is so hot, if you don't bang him, it'll be a tragedy.”_

_“C-L-I-N-T!”_ he finger-spelled.

_“What?”_ His roommate huffed. _“I have it on good authority that doing the horizontal mambo with a dancer will ruin you for sex with lesser folks.”_

Steve scoffed. _“Can we not do this?”_

_“Sure!”_ If Steve thought that was the end of it, he was mistaken. _“If you can look me in the eye and tell me with a straight face you don't wanna cowboy that man's dick like he's a bronco.”_

_“C-L-I-N-T.”_

_“Well? Can you?”_

Steve tried. By God, he tried to pierce his roommate with a steady look and swear he wasn't attracted to James Barnes, but the words just wouldn't come out of his mouth. Finally, he sighed and grabbed the remote. _“We're watching Game of Thrones.”_

His roommate made a squeaky noise at the back of his throat. _“I hate that show.”_

_“Because you hate good drama.”_

_“No. I hate melodrama and want the gods of H-Y-R-U-L-E to drop an asteroid on the planet.”_

_“W-E-S-T-E-R-O-S.”_

“Huh?”

_“H-Y-R-U-L-E is Z-E-L-D-A. W-E-S-T-E-R-O-S is Game of Thrones.”_

“Whatever, nerd!” Clint threw a fortune cookie at Steve, who caught it in mid-air.

They settled down into comfortable silence to binge watch a season of M*A*S*H, the closed captioning on, and enjoy a feast of Chinese food. He didn't say as much, but it was the perfect way to wind down from his not-date, the perfect way to ground himself. Monday, when he officially started with the NYCB, couldn't come fast enough, as he found himself eager to see James again.

Getting to Monday meant living through Saturday and his meeting with Rogue's friend. Turned out, he didn't have much to worry about. They met outside the coffee shop. Kitty Pryde couldn't have been more than five feet tall and a hundred pounds soaking wet, so in that respect, she reminded him a lot of himself before all the medications had allowed him to reach his potential. 

She was a little bubble of enthusiasm once she got to talking about her project and passion for photography, one of those rare people who could put someone at ease just by the delightfully vibrant way she lived life. The fact that her scarf was covered in little knitted cats and that she wore red cat-eye glasses that would have looked at home on his nana's face only added to the instant appeal.

Her project was for her final graduating submission and would be displayed at a local gallery along with the work of her classmates. It made him anxious, but she promised not to show his face in the actual photos, which went a long way in calming him down. All she needed from him was a beautiful body to pose which she would then include with less than ideal bodies to show the variety of human shapes and how there was beauty in all shapes and sizes.

There wasn't any reluctance left by the time he agreed, and they set their first session for Wednesday evening the week after next. Maybe he would change his mind by then. Maybe it would be good to get into a situation where he was considered an object of beauty.

Monday coming fast, he realized belated, was not a good thing. Steve realized that upon walking into his eight A.M. ethics class, Clint trotting in behind him. Naturally, they were ten minutes late, which meant the entirety of the class gawked at them for daring to come strolling into Tony Stark's lecture hall in media res. Hurrying to their usual seats didn't stop the humiliation.

“So glad you could join us, fellas,” Tony drawled. “You get enough beauty sleep? Need me to postpone class for another hour to let you finish up your dreams? Anything I can do to cater to you?”

The baron huffed a snicker and said just loud enough it was clear he meant to be overheard, “Likely too high from ecstasy to drag himself out of bed.” Zemo's slavic accent was thick. “Stayed out too late finding another hapless fool to fuck him so he can receive public attention.”

Clint's famously laid back temper snapped. He shouted, “Fuck you, Zemo.”

“I think not. That is, after all, what got him into trouble in the first place, yes?”

Steve managed to get his hands on Clint before his roommate could tear across the room and get himself kicked from class. He said, “Ignore him.”

“But Steve.”

“Clint.”

“Tony,” Professor Stark announced. “Billy. Teddy. Carol. I have no idea what your name is.” Tony waggled a finger at a different student. “With your permission, Cap, I'd like continue class.”

He settled and pulled out a notebook to take notes. The day's topic of conversation proved to be doctor assisted suicide, and Tony was in top irritating form, so by the time the class let out fifty minutes later, Steve was nursing a throbbing headache and had ground away a layer of his tooth enamel trying to make Captain Danvers understand his perspective, that if humans retained sole ownership of their bodies, then they could do with it what they liked. That included humanely dying at the time of their choosing, regardless of their body's condition.

It was another one of those moments where Professor Stark looked at him like he'd sprouted a second head. Somewhere along the way, Tony had decided Steve was a mouthpiece for the goody-two-shoe agenda and didn't believe him capable of being morally gray. Everyone had areas of moral ambiguity once they learned critical thinking skills.

Those thoughts were interrupted by a quick clamor of activity, and he looked up to witness a group of women ganging up another student wearing a headscarf. The Muslim student attempted to go around them only to be boxed in. Her dark eyes glanced around looking for some sort of escape or help.

Steve took off toward the commotion and pushed his way through the barricade in order to reach her side, at which point, he asked permission to take her elbow in order to escort her safely away. That should have been the end of it. It wasn't.

The ringleader spat, “You oughta be ashamed of yourself. Red-blooded American like you coming to the rescue of a terrorist. There's a special place in Hell for Americans who hate America.”

Proverbial wheels screeched to a halt.

“Let it go, Steve,” Clint sing-songed.

Steve turned to face them. “If being bigoted is the definition of patriotism, I'll take the head scarf for two thousand, Alex.”

The ringleader scoffed. “It's not bigoted to tell the truth. Every one of them should be deported. You either conform to American society, or you get the Hell out, and American society is a Christian society. Just ask the founding fathers.”

“Sure. I'll get right on that. Do you have an Ouija board?”

His roommate choked.

“Actually, we don't need to go so far as mysticism. We have that thing called a constitution that guarantees us freedom of religious expression. So if I want to pray to a dead chicken, I can pray to a dead chicken. If you wanna pray to a box of hair bleach, you can pray to your hair bleach. By the way, your prayers went unanswered. Your roots need doing.”

Clint choked again.

The woman huffed and came toward him with violence in her expression.

Saved by his roommate again, who jumped between them and diffused the situation by shoving Steve in the opposite direction and snapping, “You are not hitting a woman in the middle of New York City.”

He pumped the brakes and looked down at his roommate with wide, shocked eyes. “I wasn't going to hit her. Jesus Christ, Clint, what do you think of me?”

“I think you're a guy who don't know how to function 'less he's fighting for something. I think you're so fucking angry you don't know what to do with yourself when there ain't someone punish.”

He planted himself like the roots of a sequoia in the middle of the sidewalk and looked down at the other man. Naturally, he wanted to deny the accusation immediately. He wasn't like that. Was he?

They didn't have a chance to hash it out, not when Billy called their names. Teddy, broad shouldered and carrying Billy's backpack along with his own, hurried behind.

“Hey, I just wanted to--” Billy pigeon-toed and looked away, clearly searching for the right words. “I want you to know that we support you, and if you need anything, please let us know.”

“T-thank y-you,” Steve stuttered.

“People are wankers,” Teddy said.

That made Clint chortle.

“Seriously,” continued Billy. “The way Stark brought it up in class that one time made us sick. You shouldn't have had to be part of that discussion, and if anyone gives you shit, Teddy and me can be counted on to walk you to the bus stop or whatever. Ain't that right, Teddy?”

“Indubitably.”

“That means a lot, fellas.” He gripped Billy's shoulder to give it a squeeze and shook hands with Teddy. “I keep telling myself that people aren't that bad, that we're all naturally good. The Zemoes of the world shouldn't get to dictate how everyone else is perceived.”

“Here, let me give you my number so you can call if anyone gives you shit. People moving in packs are safer.” Billy punched his number into Steve's phone along with Teddy's before taking his boyfriend's hand. The way Teddy folded himself around Billy was adorable.

He thanked them again, and they chatted briefly about their studies before Steve had to hurry to the bus to get to work on time, leaving with a wave and a promise to get in touch soon. Once at the bus stop, Clint went on down the block to make his way toward his next class. Steve hunched his shoulders and stuffed a hand into his pocket to feel the smooth beads of Nana's rosary to recall the warmth of her smile, aware that other students watched him, some with curiosity, others with anger.

The first day of work was unexpectedly easy, though. He was introduced to the rest of the design team, who worked out of an office building a few blocks from the Lincoln Center. The liaison showing him around left him under the care and guidance of Neena Thurman, their lead designer. Steve did not impolitely stare at the dark birthmark encircling her left eye.

Ms. Thurman—“Neena, for the love of all things chocolate; Ms. Thurman is my mother”—brought him up to speed on their current project, which was designing programs for the upcoming ballet season. She showed him to his cubicle, which was right next to hers, and got him started on CS6 and a graphics tablet where he occasionally glanced up to watch the rest of the team throw paper wads at each other. 

He kept his head down for the first couple of hours while working on sketching a mountain and blocking in the lone silhouette of a man hidden by the shadows of the mountain, and if he happened to give the lone man long hair, well, James was the Soldier in their upcoming production.

There was something soothing about being surrounded by other artists. Some were typographers. Others were lighting specialists. Still more were responsible for stage layout. They created a jovial atmosphere as they snapped off made up color names to the room or got coffee for busy artists. At one point, a young guy named Miles came over to set a cup by Steve's elbow and welcomed him.

It gave him enough confidence to say, “Gangrenous Necrotizing Green.”

A chorus of “Ews” followed along with a “Gross, Steve!”

He smiled behind the wall of his cubicle.

After work let out, he walked the few blocks to the Lincoln Center and strolled upstairs to wait outside the practice studio. The fact that Natalia spilled out laughing took him by surprise. During their one meeting at the motel, he hadn't pegged her as the humorous sort. She had seemed quiet, reserved.

She greeted him with a quick “приВеТ.”

At first, he thought she was saying “abbreviate,” which made zero sense.

Upon his look of helpless confusion, she said “Hi.”

“Hi! Sorry. My Russian is nonexistent.”

She shrugged.

He allowed the moment of silence to carry into discomfort before asking, “What's so funny?”

She gestured toward the studio. “Leonid attempted to lift Yashka. It didn't work out well for either.”

“Why do you call him Yashka?”

Her glance suggested he was a few marbles short of a full bag. “Because it is his name.”

“I thought his name was Yakov.”

“Yasha or Yashka for short.”

“Can I go in?” He gestured toward the studio.

She shrugged, but as he moved to walk around her, she grabbed his wrist. She didn't say anything, just stared him down, a touch of coldness frosting the atmosphere, and he got the impression she searched for something. Whatever it was, she must have found it, as she released him and glided off toward the female locker rooms.

Inside the studio, he found Leonid glaring daggers a James, who massaged his elbow and spat a mouthful of Russian that couldn't be misconstrued as anything but curses heaped upon his fellow dancer's head. Those two clearly weren't the best of friends.

He offered James a hand up.

Wait.

What was James wearing?

There was surely a jock strap under that pair of painted-on boxer briefs because those underwear would have left nothing to the imagination otherwise. On his torso was a man's body shaper, a corset that laced up the back and cinched his waist into a beautiful curve. The top edge barely covered his nipples. He wore nothing else but dainty black slippers on his feet.

Steve swallowed.

He desperately fought the urge to stare by pinning eye contact with the dancer. It was hot in the studio. Surely that accounted for the sweat beading along his hairline and rolling down the nape of his neck. In the end, he lost the battle and looked, glance darting down to take in the other man's body.

“Excu--” Steve stopped and cleared his throat. “I need to--” If a hole opened to swallow him, that would be helpful, thanks so much.

A smirk curled the other man's mouth. White teeth clenched on the pillow of that bottom lip. It slid out, glistening slightly and red from the impression of James' top teeth. The man rasped, “Let me put something on. I'll meet you outside the locker room.”

The protest got stuck somewhere in Steve's throat, because covering all that up would be a crying shame. But yes. Yes, James needed to put something on so higher thought functions would reengage and allow him to have an intelligible conversation instead of squeaking like a poodle's toy.

It certainly didn't help matters when the dancer emerged later wearing that gingham wrap skirt that was just the right shade of blue to make Jame's eyes stand out crisp and bright beneath thick, dark lashes.

Steve came close to throwing his hands in the air and walking away to preserve his modesty. The only thing that stopped him was the ugly bruise beginning to form on James' elbow. Steve ghosted his fingers across it, wincing in sympathy.

“You should ice this.”

“I have to see the physician on staff before I leave but wanted to ask how your first day was.”

“Nice, actually.” Color rushed to his ears and cheeks when he reached over to clasp a lock of James' hair that had escaped a makeshift bun. The silken strands, still damp from a shower, dragged across his calloused fingertips. Steve tucked it behind the man's ear.

“I'm glad.” Something warmed James' visage.

“Actually, I wanted to stop by to ask if your offer to go to the Halloween party was still open.”

“Of course, little mountain.”

A smile brightened Steve's face. “Little mountain?”

James' cheeks turned crimson. “In Russia, anything is endearment if we put 'little' in front.”

“It's funny, because Clint's name sign for me is mountain. I highly suspect he's using it sarcastically to make fun of how stubborn I can be.”

“It is good, your stubbornness.” James' accent thickened. “You are good man. Good men must be stubborn or they are ground to dust by the lack of decency in the world.”

A shiver raced straight to his groin. Eventually, he cleared his throat and made a hasty retreat to get some distance between them. “Anyhow, we should get you to the physician.”

“You were going to tell me about the Halloween party,” prompted James.

“Right.” Fresh color pooled in his cheeks. “Yeah. I was going to. About the Halloween party. I-- Uh-- Shoot, I can't think straight when you're wearing that color.”

Rich laughter, like the babble of a brook, greeted his outburst. James turned in a quick circle, allowing the length of the skirt to billow around him.

And fuck, Steve had it bad. He had it so bad it was everything he could do not to grab that man and kiss the good sense out of him, but he didn't. He just scuffed the toe of his polished boot on the floor and finally got out, “I would like to go if the offer's still open.”

“Absolutely. I'm going as Joy.”

“Pardon?”

“From Inside Out?”

Steve was certain his face was a blanket of confusion.

“You haven't seen Inside Out? That should be a crime, Rogers.” James folded his arms across his chest with a look that could have frozen flames.

“I. Will. Watch that tonight.”

“Do that. You could dress as one of the others if you wanted.” A beat of silence passed. “I should get to the doctor before he leaves for the night. Walk with me?”

Steve eagerly agreed, their shoulders bumping in a companionable manner as they walked.

Later that night, Steve dragged a bag of dirty clothes from his bedroom to leave by the door before plopping down on the ratty sofa with Clint to watch Inside Out. And if he started crying half-way through and identified so closely with Sadness that he had to pause the movie to have a sob-fest, well, Clint didn't say anything, just offered him a shoulder to cry on and a handful of tissues.

He'd never seen a movie that better represented what it felt like in his head, the chaos of emotions fighting each other instead of working harmoniously. God, he just wanted to reach through the screen to pull Sadness into his arms or fist-bump Anger to let him know he wasn't alone.

Once the movie was over, they started planning. Turned out he had most of the things he would need already, a fact he discovered after dragging his dirty clothes down to the basement to do several loads while reading text for his next class. He grimaced from the smell of stale sweat and must from the garments having lain on the floor in haphazard piles.

By the end of the week, he could see more of his bedroom carpet than he had for months, something over which he marveled while going to the door to let James in. Clint was off at a company party with Bobbi tonight, so they didn't have his roommate to translate awkward stutter for them.

His face lit up upon seeing the dancer in his doorway wearing a green sundress that had clearly been custom made for the occasion, as the garment matched the same one in the film. He'd painted his exposed skin yellow and sported a bright blue wig. Makeup accentuated his eyes to make them stand out in bright, vibrant blue.

“You're gonna freeze out there, Buck!” Steve took the man's hand to pull him into the apartment.

James shrugged. “We must suffer for our art, Steve.”

“Sorry I'm running a bit late. Ma needed me to fix her sink pipe. I'll just be a few more minutes.”

“Take your time. We can't rush perfection.”

Steve disappeared back into his room to finish getting ready. He'd already painted his face blue for the occasion, so all he had to do was get dressed. When he emerged, he wore a white, ribbed turtleneck, navy slacks, and a pair of black and white wingtip shoes. A blue wig, gloves that matched the face paint, and a pair of large, round glasses completed the outfit.

“Stevie!” James exclaimed, face lighting up. “You look incredible.”

A blush attempted to work its way onto his face. For once, he didn't look bright red. “Thanks. So do you, by the way.”

“Here, let me fix your eyes.” James dug in a satchel and came out with a makeup bag. “Do not look at me like that. Dancers go through rigorous makeup before taking stage. I know what I'm doing.”

Steve sat on a kitchen chair and removed the glasses to allow James to make him up however he saw fit. It was disconcerting standing so close to the other man, as James was practically wedged between his legs in order to get closer to his face. He smelled incredible again, but this time, it was a light, lemony fragrance that immediately made him think of happy summers in the country with Nana and Ma. Surely that was the point of the fragrance, to make a person feel happy.

He glanced in a mirror when the other man was done and made a startled sound. His eyes and cheeks had been contoured to make them stand out. He hardly recognized himself through the various shades blending together to prevent him from looking like a member of the Blue Man Group.

“You're really talented.”

“Its easy when I have such stunning canvas.”

“Here.” Steve thrust a crocheted poncho in the other man's hands. “Just return it after tonight. My nana made it for one of our last Christmases together.”

“Steve,” his companion said in a soft voice.

“Shall we?”

The drive to the Kimpton Muse Hotel was quiet but companionable, and by the time they arrived, the meeting space was already filled with people enjoying champagne and hors d'oeuvres. Any reservations he had about attending were quickly dispelled, as no one seemed to recognize him from the news reports. No one pointed fingers at him and yelled obscenities that he was the reason the Violets wouldn't win the championship that year.

Granted, he didn't know anyone at the party except for Natalia and James, but his not-date was sure to include him in the various conversations instead of leaving him in a corner somewhere. It was pleasant, and their costumes were a huge hit. In the end, he was glad he hadn't ignored he invitation. It wasn't like he'd had any better offers this year.

After a while, with a pleasant buzz loosening his inhibitions, Steve asked James to dance, a happy smile on his face while holding out a hand to the other man. His not-date seemed a little reluctant but accepted the offer anyway, and Steve turned him out onto the dance floor.

“Have you ever done a quickstep?”

“Yes.”

Steve counted them into the beat of the big band song before launching into a basic quickstep, trusting James would follow where he led. And he did. He followed impeccably. They synchronized their bodies, whipping their feet in a complicated series of fishtails and progressive chasses, James' bare feet skimming the hardwood like they barely touched ground.

The man was so graceful that Steve wasn't the least concerned they would bump into each other or become tangled in the whirl of movements. They skipped and jogged and bobbed from foot to foot, and it was exhilarating. By the time they slid to a stop with the last beat of the music, he was laughing. He pulled his partner into a hug, surprised by the onlookers bursting into applause.

“You didn't tell me you could dance like that,” James said while easing back to make eye contact. Tears gathered in the man's eyes.

Instantly concerned, he hovered his hand near James' cheek, unwilling to touch and smear his make-up. “Are you all right? I didn't hurt you, did I?”

“What? Oh! There is no hurt. It happens sometimes. That I laugh or cry wrong.”

“Was the dance good?”

“Very.”

They returned to the dining tables for more champagne, at which point, an older, lanky fellow approached. The newcomer's presence made James sit straighter and appear more reserved.

“Mr. Jarvis,” he intoned. “Steve, this is our master in chief, Edwin Jarvis.”

“You work in the design department, I believe,” Mr. Jarvis said, his accent thick and British.

“Yes, Sir.” Steve rose to shake the man's hand. “James won't let you down, Sir. He's an incredible person and dancer.”

“You've never seen me dance before, Steve.”

“A thing that will be remedied soon when we move to stage rehearsals,” Mr. Jarvis commented. “James, we'll need you extra early this coming week. A film crew is coming in to interview our dancers. They'll shadow you during your practices. We must present you as our newly-appointed principal to begin advertisements for our production.”

“Of course, Sir. I'll be ready.”

The ballet master in chief retreated.

Steve reached across the table to cup James' fingers. “Are you nervous?”

“I spent my formative years in Lyovikha. Nerves are to an iceberg as rain is to a stone.”


	7. Glissade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James takes a leap forward and finds his self-determination while Steve rediscovers his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Domestic violence situation that gets physical. Brief, non-graphic flashback to when Steve was raped while he's defending himself against a knife attack.

His feet ached from all the ballroom dancing, and he was filled with a pleasant buzz of adrenaline and alcohol upon keying into his apartment at the Dylan. His thoughts were full of Steve, from the way he smelled to the way he danced. There was a man who could lead, a man who trusted his partner to follow instead of bodily moving them around the dance floor.

Said good mood crashed upon hearing a familiar voice in the kitchen.

“Did you lose your engagement ring again?” demanded Victor, who stood over the stove making something for dinner.

A sinking sensation spilled his stomach into his feet upon finding the ring sitting on the kitchen island instead of in the underwear drawer where he'd left it. He told himself he had nothing to be ashamed of. Victor was not going to bully him inside his own home.

Squaring his shoulders, he planted both feet and said, “It is none of your business. Leave. I do not want you here.” If his Russian accent thickened, well, that was just too bad.

Victor laughed, a sinister chuckle that sent spiders skittering down James' spine. He continued stirring whatever was on the stove, seemingly unconcerned by the order to leave.

“I'm serious, Victor. It's over between Alex and me. Leave.”

“Put your engagement ring on and eat.” Victor settled a bowl of mac and cheese on the island.

“I cannot eat that.”

Victor moved so suddenly he didn't have time to backpedal. The other man gripped his chin to prevent him from looking away. “Put your goddamn engagement ring on and eat whatever I goddamn give you. No wonder you're so damn spoiled. Alex is too soft on you. I ain't Alex.”

“Get your hands--”

A hard slap with the back of Victor's knuckles interrupted his command. It was like his whole head rattled off his shoulders. Everything from his collarbones up ached, and his cheek felt like it should be crushed. He stumbled a little, the unexpected strike catching him off guard.

“Get out,” he said again.

The other man seized his chin.

Pain suddenly leeched up his leg and into his brain, and it took him a moment to realize the pain was from the hot pan Victor had cooked with pressing against his thigh. A yelp escaped. It didn't seem possible to shake the hard grip despite the amount of weight training he did. All the while, that gold pin mocked him from the collar of the man's shirt.

Something inside him snapped with the sharp twang of a rubber band. The voice inside his head telling him to cooperate, whispering to keep silent and go along, dropped quiet, and James moved. He brought his knee up between Victor's spread thighs and used the distraction to slam the other man's face down against the marble counter top of the kitchen island.

Going toe to toe with someone his attacker's size wasn't really the best option, so he grabbed his phone and raced into the bathroom to slam and lock the door before dialing 911. Victor was close behind. The other man slammed his fists against the door. It shuddered under the impact but held firm.

“Open this goddamn door and do as you're told,” snarled Victor.

“Don't obey. Don't obey. Don't obey.” One hand pressed the phone against his ear while the 911 operator told him to stay calm. The other clenched against his chest hard enough knuckles whitened. For once in his life, he couldn't go along with what he was being told. Not like with Her.

The door hinges groaned under his attacker's continued impacts.

“He can't hurt you if you just don't obey,” he murmured to himself.

Beyond the claustrophobic environs of his bathroom, he heard the front door open.

Moments later, Rivka's voice bled through. “Hey, XYЙ. Step away, or I will shoot you.”

Phone forgotten and terror welling where panic had once been, James burst out of the bathroom armed with a heavy vase because the last thing he wanted was for his twin to be hurt. His sister being hurt was the farthest thing from reality, though, as she had a handgun trained on Victor, tension radiating through her body. The marble grimace of her expression betrayed nothing but utter control.

Victor really had no choice but to back down unless he wanted to be shot.

“Little wolf, come.”

He scrambled around his attacker, heart pounding and air stoppered in his lungs. After a moment, he forced words out. “Cops are on their way.”

Victor's look could have cut diamonds. It was razor-sharp, a knife slicing into moist cake. “I promise you, James, this isn't over. You don't leave Alexander Pierce.”

“And one does not simply walk into Mordor,” Rivka quipped. 

Police arrived then to take the situation in hand, but not even that caused tension to bleed from his spine. He remained poised partly behind Rivka while the officers did their job, took his statement, gathered evidence of the abuse, the burn on his leg and blooming bruise on his face. It irritated him when they asked to see Rivka's concealed carry license like she'd done something wrong.

EMTs took a look at his leg but indicated he wouldn't need to be hospitalized. They cleaned and dressed the burn and instructed him to follow up with his regular doctor. It was a relief considering he'd already missed so much rehearsal time on account of Alexander Pierce.

Neither sibling spoke again until after the officers arrested Victor and took their leave, not until the door was firmly bolted against the outside world. He pushed aside his protein powder and pulled down a bottle of Stolichnaya to pour them each a shot.

The womb-like atmosphere inside carried for long moments.

“That man was in your apartment all weekend. This is why Ivan has been staying with me.”

“Да.” He couldn't bring himself to look at her.

“Yashka.” A beat of silence passed. “Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell anyone?”

“I don't know.”

Her glance went to the ring sitting on the island. A heavy breath left her. “Come here.”

“What?”

“Just come here, Brother.”

Cooperating seemed the easiest way to avoid a fight, so he strode after her and held his hand up when asked to do so. She placed the ring against his palm and guided him over to the garbage disposal, which she flipped on. Quiet rumbling emanated.

“Put it where it belongs, little wolf. Flush him down the drain just like he deserves. Take your freedom back from that awful man. Let him go.”

Even after everything, turning loose of that ring was a triumph over every instinct Alex had pushed into him during the course of their relationship. He didn't know why. It should have been easy.

After a few moments and while snuffling back snot from the tears raking down his cheeks, he finally dumped the titanium band into the garbage disposal. There was a hard clank, a whir, and then a dying dirge as the ring lodged in the disposal's grinding plate.

Somehow, that broke the lingering tension, and laughing, James scrambled to flick the switch off. “That was not your best idea, little fox.”

“I was going for dramatic.”

They wound up calling their father, who spent the better part of an hour poking fun at them for destroying the garbage disposal while talking them through getting the ring out. The ring was then flushed down the toilet to be safe. It turned into an impromptu Skype session so the twins could have dinner with their parents, who threatened to end Victor for putting their son in harm's way.

After dinner, his twin changed the dressings on his burn and sat him down for a heart to heart. His love for her knew no bounds. She could tell him things he didn't want to hear, things he wanted to hide from, things he never would have acknowledged with anyone else. 

Their closeness came from shared memories. They had shared everything from the same womb to their mother's nipples to a blanket and an apartment when they had first moved from their parents' home in Brooklyn. So it was an easy thing, allowing her to pull his head down on her bosom and weep. And it was an easy thing to sink into her comfort. It was an easy thing to allow the familiar sound of her voice to lull him into a sort of calm as she sang to him about the firebird.

The next morning, she greeted him with a cup of fresh coffee and by saying, “Call your doorman. Tell him he is not to let Victor, Alex, or any of his goons past the lobby. Then, you will call your maintenance department and ask them to change the locks.”

“Is that necessary?”

“Yes.” Her tone brooked no refusal.

He sipped the coffee and caught the phone Rivka tossed to him to make the necessary calls. Being six feet of muscle and balance, he couldn't figure how he'd allowed himself to be put in that position in the first place. He expressed as much to his sister. He wasn't supposed to be a victim.

Revekka lapsed into Russian. “You loved Alexander for many years, little wolf. We do not always know how to defend ourselves from people we love.”

Maintenance men came the following morning to change the door locks. He gave pictures of Alex, Victor, and Mortimer to the doorman with instructions that they shouldn't be let into the building. Rivka helped him pack Alex's things—and that was an incredibly hard step, separating their lives after three plus years of building toward a common future—to be placed in the storage unit until such a time as Alex had been released from jail to deal with the items himself.

The only other options would be telephoning their coach, Johann Schmidt, who might have a method of contacting Alex's family on record. Conversely, he could move and leave the apartment complex to deal with the items since his boyfriend was on the lease. Since his ex-boyfriend was on the lease. But he liked his apartment and didn't want to go through the hassle of moving.

The morning after that, Rivka marched him down to the courthouse to apply for a restraining order, a step he ultimately backed out of. He didn't want to get Alex into any more trouble than he was already in, and since the man would likely be in jail a while, he didn't think he needed to worry about a protective order. Rivka just looked at him with a sad expression but didn't force his hand.

Turned out she didn't force him because at the end of the week, he opened his front door to his mother's familiar face. He recognized his own in hers. Hers was plump and showed the laughter lines of a life spent with good humor. Gray winged her temples, but there was the same dent in her chin, the same startling blue of her eyes, the same guarded smile.

He lurched one step closer and wrapped her in his arms.

“Mamochka, what are you doing here?”

“Revekka was concerned.” She pulled him tight, wrapped him close as though he were still a babe in arms. “Your papa and I were also concerned after dinner the other night.”

“I didn't want to upset you.”

She muttered a Russian curse.

He jerked back, abashed. “Mama, what language.”

“Twenty one hours of labor culminating in a hack of a physician cutting my babies from my belly. Days of post-operative pain. Weeks of infection. A belly full of scars and stretch marks. I will use any words I please, little wolf.”

It felt like coming home. He brought her into his apartment and clicked the new deadbolt into place.

“Mama.” He looked at the hardwood, at the rug, out the window, anywhere but at that kind face.

She wouldn't let him retreat. Rather, she cupped his cheeks and kissed his forehead. “Tell me what's hurt my baby boy?”

And really, he should have known what was in store for him after recounting the whole ordeal. He should have known the consequences of riling Verochka “Winnifred” Barinov. Like all things Mother produced, the concept of “mama bear” was wilder, more aggressive, stronger. She was the Kamchatka Brown bear, the polar bear, the grizzly. She was a rock, a force unto herself.

After crying yet more tears on her lap that night, she marched him down to the main office to have a conversation with his lease holder regarding the situation, but it proved unhelpful. He had no proof that Victor had invaded his home on Alex's behalf, which ultimately meant the lease holder had no cause to move toward eviction unless James wanted to violate his lease and lose the apartment himself.

That resulted in another trip to the courthouse to file a petition for a temporary restraining order. Mamochka barreled right over his hesitance, and he soon found himself inside a court room explaining his circumstances to a judge, who refused to grant an order against Alex on the grounds that there was no indication Victor had acted on anyone else's request. The judge suggested that if his claims of domestic violence were accurate—said in a way that sent shivers of revulsion down James' spine—he should look into getting some support from a domestic violence organization.

Turned out there were ample resources for domestic violence victims, up to and including long-term shelters where he might go if evicting Alex became impossible. He spent the rest of the day calling them to see what help was available. Of the nine he called, three referred him to a hotline for batterers, assuming he must be the abuser. Two outright laughed at him and claimed it wasn't possible for men to be abused. One suggested he was wasting valuable time and should stop being a wimp. Two wished they could help but didn't have any facilities for men. The final organization insisted he sign their contract that included going to a Christian conversion camp to overcome his addiction to the homosexual lifestyle.

By the end of the night, it took both Mama and Rivka to get him into a tub of hot water to soak. They gave him ice cream. They helped him put Ivan in a sweater, so he could stretch out on the sofa with the cat tucked under his chin and purring his head off. They even flanked him on either side while Mama rubbed his feet and Rivka played with his hair.

He was a grown man. Grown men could sometimes accept childhood comforts. Right?

Rivka had an exam the next morning—she was in her final year of school and was starting the process of applying to local residency programs—so their mamochka shadowed him the following day. He taught his morning class at the academy before moving on to rehearsals. Out of deference to his poor mama's modesty, he wore a pair of full length tights and a loose sweater, the neck worn out to the point it sagged down over his shoulder now and then, allowing the tattoo of an owl to peek out.

Leonid stumbled in just as Mr. Jarvis was introducing James to the videographer, a guy named Peter Parker, in charge of capturing footage for their ad campaign. Leo looked like Hell, eyes sunken, strung out, and still sorting out a hangover from the night before by the looks of things. But when James saw him again, his colleague looked chipper. James wrote it off in favor of ignoring the cameras.

After class let out, he stopped for a respite to splash water on his face in the locker room and overheard Leo, Dimitry, and Arkady engaging in hushed whispers. Normally, he wouldn't have involved himself, but the cause for Leos' quick turn-around that morning was soon answered by the sound of a snort. He turned the corner into the shower stall to find the three men with lines of cocaine arranged neatly on the back of a tablet and Dimitry mid-snort.

Leo locked eyes with him.

A beat of silence passed.

The other man extended his hand toward the cocaine in silent offer.

James walked away, his conscience telling him to turn back and stop them while his apathy insisted he had right to get involved. If they wanted to turn their brains to mush in order to dance, they were entitled so to do. Apathy won out. This time.

Which put him right back in the studio with the videographer, who was now being shadowed by a young woman in red cat-eye glasses. She introduced herself as Kitty Pryde, a photography and videography student at the Art Institute of New York. He didn't care that she followed them around while collecting stock footage. There was something about her that amused him.

“Mamochka, this might take a while. Would you like to go for coffee?”

“This is all so very interesting. I want to watch you, little wolf.”

His voice softened. “Mama, those are the outfits they want me to wear.” He indicated a wardrobe wrack filled with barely-there articles of clothing designed to show off his body.

An arctic glance turned from James to the clothing wrack and back. “Yes?”

“You're my mama.”

A huff of breath escaped when the woman who birthed him connected the points. It was followed by a roll of her eyes. “Yoo-Yoo--”

Something softened in his expression when she used his private name, the one only his mama used when he'd been a little boy still clinging to her legs.

She continued in perfect English, “I hate to break this to you, but I changed your nappies religiously, my darling boy. I have seen in detail the size and composition of your prick.”

Stunned, he jerked back and admonished, “Mama! What language.”

“Twenty-one hours of labor, Yoo-Yoo. Stretch marks. My body was ruined to give you to ballet. Now get out there and shake your badonkadonk. Nude art is still art, little wolf.”

“мать,” he gasped, shocked. The secondary question that begged answering was how his mother had gotten so adept at American slang when he still struggled so with basic grammar.

She had the gall to laugh at him. It was followed by smacking him in the buttocks and giving him a small shove toward the crew awaiting him.

Mr. Parker was content to start taking footage in his current outfit, so he put on a fresh pair of slippers and pressed the knuckles of his toes into the hardwood to keep them stretched and comfortable. Someone started a random jazz instrumental and instructed him to just go with the music. He dropped into the splits and rolled his upper body around to loosen the muscles there before beginning.

He started with simple pirouettes that expanded into corkscrews, his body leaping into the air to spin parallel to the floor. When he alighted, he did so with the softest of whispers. The beat of the music was frenetic and kept him moving, kept him twisting his body into various shapes and angles as he remembered those first, good years with Alex. How he'd wanted to please Alex then.

Looking up and finding Natalia perched next to his mother was pleasantly surprising. The pair laughed at something. Natashenka was always so intense that seeing her relax made him feel good for her. During a break to change costumes, he approached them to kiss his mamochka on the temple.

“What have my lovely birds found amusing today?”

“Your face,” Natalia responded in her driest deadpan.

“Pardon?”

“Here.” Mamochka beckoned him with a handkerchief.

When he approached, she started scrubbing beneath his eyes, the pristine cloth coming away smudged with black kohl from the eyeliner he'd put on earlier in the day. Gasping, he whipped around to approach the full-length mirrors only to discover the most heinous raccoon eyes to have graced the planet. He had black smudged heavily beneath his eyes.

“Why didn't you tell me?” he demanded with a huff.

“Why didn't you look in the mirror?” Natalia asked.

“I think it's super hot,” Ms. Pryde interjected.

James tossed his hands in the air and proceeded into the locker room to change. He wore a black dance belt—he dared any man to try the leaps and jumps required of ballet without genital support—and a black wrap skirt. He half-expected his mother to have something to say about seeing him in a skirt and was therefore stunned (he blushed) when said mother cat-called him and suggested he show a bit of leg. By that point, he wondered what aliens had stolen his sweet mother.

Ms Pryde jumped off a stack of boxes and circled him once. “You know, that would look fantastic up against a backdrop of urban decay. We should take him to Yonkers Power Station. You know, combine the beauty and artistry of the body in motion against human blight.”

The videographer got permission from the property owner, and within half an hour, they were loaded up into Peter's van and James' Mazda and on their way to Yonkers. Personally, he thought they were a little crazy, but the adventure kept his mind off his most recent problems, so he went along with it.

James made Kitty sweep a section of the floor fastidiously to avoid injuring his feet on any bits of glass or loose stone. She didn't once complain about his manic dedication to protecting his toes, just plopped her butt down on the floor and checked and rechecked the section they'd decided to use until the flooring was smooth as a baby's bottom. Peter, meanwhile, set up some stage lights with the help of Natalia and Mamochka. Those two were getting along frighteningly well.

By the time evening rolled around, Peter declared the lighting perfect and started a piece of music that included heavy Japanese drums. James turned in a quick spin that caused the skirt to flare around him like a mushroom head. He turned on a dime to spin the opposite direction, making the skirt twist and flare again, arms over his head, head thrown back, drums reverberating through his heart.

“You're not feeling, Yashka,” Natashenka prodded.

How she managed to know every time he was having trouble sinking into a piece of music was a mystery. He scowled and waved her opinion away to try a few different spin combinations and leaps, but regardless of his willingness to admit it, he could feel himself disconnected from the music, be it from the strange surroundings or his reluctance to unlock his emotions.

“Little soldier,” she interrupted again. “Where is your heart?”

“Up your frigid ass if you don't stop interrupting me, little spider.”

“We did not drag all this equipment across town for you to give only half of yourself.”

His chin tilted toward a stubborn angle.

“What does it make you feel, little soldier? What do the drums tell you?”

He started to snap anything that might shut her up but quieted upon recognizing his reluctance to let go to this particular piece of music. When he spoke, his voice was soft, nearly inaudible. “Angry.”

“Do not be ashamed of what you feel. Speak up.”

“Angry,” he snapped. “It makes me feel angry.”

“Then be angry. Mother knows you have plenty of reason to be.”

The music started again. He allowed himself to settle into the frame of his body, pressed the knuckles of his toes into the floor to ground himself, and fuck was he angry. The man he loved had raped someone. The man he loved had sent one of his goons to keep James in line. He was so, so angry.

Both fists punched toward the air. His body snapped rigidly. He turned like a screw, a tight spin of his body that caused the skirt to flare around him, black like the darkest night, sharp like the thinnest razor. His muscles pulled tight as he twisted again, a twist that launched his body into the air, legs scissoring beneath him, hands gouging furrows through the atmosphere. Alex had raped someone.

He landed in a crouch, planted his hands against the stone and lifted his feet from the ground to suspend his split legs in mid-air. Muscles firing, he pushed his legs into a handstand, toes pointed toward the ceiling, and allowed them to fall open again. His world had been turned upside down.

Upon regaining his footing, he cut the air with a tense motion to allow his hand to tear open the tie of his skirt. It shredded from his body, and he spun outward away from the garment that he swirled through the air like a matador's cape. The black fabric arched around him as he whipped it into sinuous shapes. He lifted a leg toward the rear in a grand battement to act as a counter-lever against the gyration of his upper body. Alex had turned his world upside down. He was unbalanced.

Linen billowed around him, and as he sank toward the floor, the fabric drifted to the ground atop him, a shroud to cover the death of who he once was, the death of whatever innocence Lyovikha had failed to destroy. His death shroud.

Blinding light flashed rhythmically as the buzz of electricity vibrated the atmosphere. Yashka jerked beneath the shroud. Distantly, a drop of water dripped against the concrete. Chunky heels knocked against the floor. Closer. He pulled himself into a tight ball. Closer. She could hear his breathing. Surely she could hear the thunder of his heart. Closer. Metal tapped against metal, the tube of her syringe against the metal grate of a set of stairs leading into darkness. Closer.

A loud clatter dragged a yelp from his lungs. He pulled the black fabric around his body and scrambled away from the noise, which turned out to be nothing more sinister than one of the light stands falling over, because they were in Yonkers, not Lyovikha. The angel wasn't coming for him.

A hiss escaped. Natalia took his elbow and urged him up, sat him on a stack of lighting boxes and crouched to look at the soles of his feet. He'd inadvertently scrambled out of the area Ms. Pryde had spent so much time sweeping clean. A couple of drops of blood dotted the sole of his feet. Natalia glanced up in sympathy and used tweezers from her bag to pick out bits of glass and rubble.

“I only force you because it will fester. It will fester so deeply it will kill you.”

He looked down at her bowed head, fiery hair pulled into a peppy pony tail.

She must have sensed the question he refused to ask. “I have died countless times.”

He allowed the silence to stretch to give her room in which to speak.

“Not literally, of course. I'm a spider, not a cat and don't have the benefit of nine lives. My underbelly has been scraped raw across the gravel at the bottom of the River Styx. Numerous sexual partners, drugs, alcohol, self-harm. Each one kills the person you are eventually.”

“Natalia,” he murmured.

The corner of her lips turned up. She removed a heeled shoe to allow him to see the sole of her foot, covered in evenly-placed scars of a half-inch long. “No one wanted me. No one showed me how to love myself, so I killed that Natalia Romanova.”

“Natashenka.”

After replacing her shoe, she smoothed her palms up his calves in a casually intimate touch until she skimmed the bandage covering the burn on his calf. In a moment of rare vulnerability, she met his glance without her usual mask. “I didn't love myself enough to save myself.”

“Little spider,” breathed James. He reached to graze his palms down her forearms. “You're not alone anymore. I love you. Maybe it's in the same way I love a romantic partner, but it's still real.”

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. She glanced away. “Then don't allow the little soldier to die. Allow him to feel. Stop the festering.”

“If it pleases you.”

“It pleases me.”

James brushed his thumb over a stray tear that made it past her control. He leaned down to press a kiss into her forehead and broke the intensity of the moment with a shiver. “I'm freezing.”

Soft laughter bubbled from her, and he rose to remove her cardigan and drape it over his shoulders. The garment looked ridiculously small on him, but the thought was sweet enough to make his old cavities ache. Moments later, Ms. Pryde hurried over with his regular shoes and the hoodie he'd worn.

“Pizza party at the Barnes residence,” Mamochka announced.

***

Steve was already dressed and nursing a cup of hot coffee in the studio space Kitty had rented for their photo shoot. His cheeks still burned. He felt emotionally and physically exhausted from spending several hours baring himself the way she asked him. Part of him could still feel the vulnerability of exposing himself to the camera, each flash like an indelible accusation that said the world somehow knew he was inferior goods, too weak to protect himself when it counted most.

It hadn't all been bad, of course. Once he'd gotten used to her instructions, he'd settled enough to somewhat enjoy the process. Kitty had a way of distracting him that prevented him from becoming lost inside his head. For a few scant hours, she had managed to make him feel sexy without making him feel objectified. It'd been nice while it had lasted.

An hour post-shoot, the embarrassment was catching up to him again.

Kitty trotted from a back room to finish packing lighting equipment borrowed from her school. “Oh good. You're clothed again. Means I can go home and take a cold shower soon, 'cause you are smokin'. Someone get the fire extinguisher and stick it in my panties.”

More color rushed into his cheeks.

She softened and asked, “Do you want to see some of the photos before we go? Of course, these won't be the finished product. I still have to tweak a few things during post-processing, but you'll get a general idea of how they'll look on display.”

“Sure.”

They sat at a low table. She started a slide show. The first image that appeared nearly made him drop his coffee, because that surely wasn't him. He looked at a photograph of his back, head bowed, legs slightly apart to show just a hint of his scrotum between his legs. The way the shot was lit from behind, it cast most of his body in shadow and made him look like he was an eclipse, the moon blocking out the light of the sun. That couldn't be him.

The next photo showed a tight shot of his bicep. A particular freckle caught his attention, and he maneuvered his arm to find said freckle on his own body. There it was. Proof that the images were indeed of Steven Grant Rogers instead of someone beautiful, someone whose body and mind hadn't been damaged beyond repair.

Some were black and white. Others were in color and captured his complexion with soft, ethereal lightning. He was as Irish as Irish could get. It meant his skin was the sort of milky variety that flushed pink and was most noticeable around his neck and groin. A closeup shot of his groin showcased the pink flush at the cockhead and along his balls, and he was a mixture of horrified and stunned to realize said penis was half-hard. He couldn't remember being remotely aroused during the photo shoot, but the evidence was right there in front of him.

A nest of ginger curls existed at the base of his cock that faded into a trail of blonde hair racing up his stomach. Why had he never noticed that before? He'd never really paid attention to the hints of ginger in his beard and eyebrows, only knew his hair was a dirty blonde that faded to golden when he spent the summer in the sun.

“How in the world do you have blond hair but ginger pubes?” asked Kitty.

Steve's face practically caught on fire. “Genetic anomaly? Wouldn't surprise me considering I was such a sickly kid. My genetics refuse to be normal.”

“I'm just saying that you have a gorgeous cock, and if you weren't full on gay, I'd be in there with a chance to play with that dingle berry.”

He choked on a sip of coffee.

She thumped him between the shoulder blades.

Thing was that he didn't feel dirty when she complimented him like that. There was no expectation there. She knew he wasn't likely to succumb to her womanly wiles, so when she complimented him, it wasn't because she expected something in return. Without that pressure, it felt nice. Harmless.

“Will you let me know when your showing is ready? I'd like to be there.”

“Sure, but for now, I have to skedaddle before the others eat all Remy's étouffée. He's from New Orleans. We're trying to talk him into opening up a bistro here.”

“That sounds incredible. It's hard to get good Cajun anywhere nearby.”

“Do you want to come over for dinner?”

Trepidation immediately put his taste buds into the freezer. Being in a strange place surrounded by strange people? Or mostly strange at any rate. He wasn't sure he was up for that after a mentally-exhausting afternoon spent naked. “Maybe a rain check?”

“Sure.” The young woman dug around in her messenger bag and produced a card. “We're here if you change your mind. I'm sure everyone would love to have you.”

He read from the card, “The Xavier Institute For Gifted Youngsters.”

“It's a group home for kids from unusual backgrounds. Rogue's parents kicked her out at sixteen for refusing to be a good Christian girl. Bobby's parents refused to help him with college when they found out he wanted to study sociology to open a homosexual rights foundation. My parents are always going off on missions in third world countries to bring medical care to the masses. Dr. Xavier has a foundation that helps us pay for college and gives us a residence where we can support each other.”

“That's impressive.”

“Anyhow, if you change your mind, just pop in whenever. There's always someone around.”

They saw each other to the door, and he waited to help her load lighting gear into the back of a rented truck. Despite his offer to help unload back at the Art Institute, she waved him off with promises that Rogue and Bobby would help her. He waited until she was safely in her vehicle and on the way before heading off toward the nearest subway station.

He'd only gone a half a block before his phone chimed an incoming call. His ma's number flashed across the screen. “Hey, Ma.”

“Detective Jones is still waiting on the DNA results from your rape kit. It takes a while for these things to process. Until then, she'd like you to come in and look at some photos to identify the two others who were involved in your assault.”

“Ma, can we not do this tonight?”

“Honey, if we put it off, this will get harder to prosecute. We need to strike while we have the media attention. Otherwise, the fact that young men are being targeted and raped will just be a footnote buried deep inside the newspaper.”

“Ma,” he tried again, shoulders sinking.

“Baby, this is real important.”

A soft groan escaped, and he would have eventually given in and done as she asked. That was how it should have gone, but it was not how things went. Sounds of a struggle in the alley he passed froze him mid-step. Night shadows cloaked the area in gloom, but he saw enough to realize an overweight, beefy sort of guy attacked a much smaller guy with a knife, who barely avoided being opened from navel to to nose by grabbing a trash can lid for defense.

“Ma, I gotta go.”

“Steve--” Her voice cut off when he ended the call and shoved his phone in his pocket.

He beat-feet down the alley and dodged between the lopsided duo, using his upper body strength to shove the attacker into the exposed brick of the building opposite them. Blood pounded painfully in his ears. “Pick on someone your own size.”

The blonde guy huddling behind his metal lid squawked, “I had 'im on the ropes.”

“This ain't got nothin' to do wit' you,” the large man snarled.

“Yeah, well I'm making it my business.”

Unrestrained fury came at him with a wicked looking knife and no Clint Barton to diffuse the situation. He twisted away from the wild slashes and went in under the attacker's defenses with a pair of sharp upper-cuts that snapped the man's head backward. It didn't create as much of a distance gap as he'd hoped, as the man simply spat out a mouthful of blood and came in harder.

Dropping below the knife allowed him to deliver a second jab that was too cushioned by fat to cause any real damage. Not even a knee to the kidneys slowed that bull down. It was like fighting the Stay Puffed Marshmallow Man; he landed hits, but they weren't enough to rattle the asshole's insides.

Blood roared in his ears. Not strong enough. Too weak to stop the assault. He wasn't a real man. Real men could defend themselves against attackers. He lost track of his surroundings in the fog of his mounting panic and tripped over a piece of garbage. It meant he couldn't turn away in time to avoid the knife again and felt it rip through his shirt and skin where it skated up his ribcage.

Too weak. He was a victim, always a victim. A whistle of breath. Couldn't breathe.

Something snapped in Steve's mind. He couldn't live through being victimized again. Desperation pooled into his belly, making his blood turn to ice, and all he could suddenly hear was the rattle of a belt buckle and His diamond-edged voice saying _“Spread his legs, Boys. I'm gonna show him what a real cock feels like.”_ Around him, the other men intoned _“Hail Hydra.”_

An awful sort of sound shredded his vocal cords, and he hurled himself into his attacker's mass with enough force to topple them both to the ground. Taking advantage of his opponent being stunned, he straddled the man and started wailing on that thick face with unrestrained, wild blows. Red veiled his vision. There was red behind his eyes, red on his knuckles, red on the attacker's face, red in his soul.

Someone was screaming. He didn't realize it was him until his voice became too hoarse to continue.

They'd taken his security from him. They'd taken his strength from him. They'd made him a weak coward who had laid there while three men had taken turns raping him, only one of which whose name he knew and could potentially be brought to justice. 

A man with a knife in a dark alley was not going to be allowed to do that to him again. There was red everywhere. He would never get himself clean.

The soft voice that permeated the fog in his head turned sharp, and the blond guy grabbed his wrist and shouted, “Stop! You're gonna kill him.”

Red cracked. He looked down in abject horror at the man whose body he straddled, the man whose face was no longer recognizable as a face. There was too much blood and fragments of bone and teeth mixed into a soup to positively identify him anymore.

Steve stumbled back, wound up scrambling away and falling onto his butt amidst the strewn garbage with his whole body shaking. “Oh God.” A hand flew to his mouth. His knuckles were covered in blood and abrasions. He repeated “Oh God” again.

The haze of horror evaporated with the sound of incoming sirens.

The kid jerked out of his own fog and said, “Get out of here. I'll tell them I was knocked unconscious and woke up to find him like this. They'll never think a guy my size did this kind of damage.”

Silence.

“Did you hear me? Get the Hell out of here.”

It was a crossroads, Steve thought, a life-changing choice. He could escape the consequences, flee the scene of the crime and hope the guy lived long enough to get to a hospital, or he could be Steve Rogers. And fuck, he wanted to run so much and pretend like it had never happened, but running wouldn't allow him to escape his conscience. It would fester inside him like a dirty wound.

In the end, he planted his feet and crouched down to look for a pulse. The man was still alive.

Being put in handcuffs, read his rights, and helped into a squad car was certainly a new experience. Actually, he was in something of a daze. The trip to the nearest precinct was little more than a blur, and it didn't take long for him to be placed in a seating area along with several other criminals to await booking. Some drunk guy a couple of rows ahead tried to convince one of the officers he'd won American Idol, something that resulted in most of the detainees singing along to those iconic lyrics “I fought the law and the law won.”

While waiting for his chance at booking, the medical staff came along and directed him to a private area where nurses checked out injuries. His knuckles still bled, though it had slowed to a trickle, so they were cleaned thoroughly along with the knife wound on his ribs. Luckily, it wasn't deep enough to require anything more than a few butterfly bandages.

It was nearing dawn by the time he finished the process and was handed over to an older black fellow with tufts of white hair at his temples who recognized him as Captain Rogers' kid. It resulted in a seemingly endless loop of heckles but didn't buy him a get out of jail free card, as he found himself transferred to a holding cell with the rest of the city's underbelly.

By the time he got to make his phone call, people were being provided with a meager breakfast, and he chose to phone a friend by calling Clint instead of his mother. He wasn't ready for Sarah Rogers to find out her son had been arrested on charges of assault.

“Let me get this straight. They put you in jail for defending yourself and someone else.”

“I nearly killed him. He's in the hospital I beat him so badly. They should be charging me with attempted homicide.”

“Murder requires intent, pal.”

“Attempted involuntary manslaughter?”

“Not a real charge. Aggravated battery maybe,” Clint said around a mouthful of food.

“Are you eating my Fruity Pebbles?”

“No, I'm eating my Fruity Pebbles. Convicts loose all rights to personal possessions.”

Steve allowed his forehead to thump against the wall. “Clint.”

“What? You gotta know how awesome this is. I'm gonna have bragging points with your ma for the next five thousand years. Any time I misbehave, I can inform her that at least I ain't been arrested.”

“Kill me now.”

His roommate's heckling stopped immediately. “Don't you even joke about that, Rogers.” A beat of silence passed. “What do you need me to do?”

“They're gonna arraign me this morning. Find out how much my bail is gonna be and see if I have enough in my sock drawer. If not, just let me rot in prison.”

“Buddy, I ain't gonna let you rot in prison.”

Someone standing in line behind him told him to get the fuck off and stop hogging the phone. “I gotta go. Just don't call my ma looking for bail money. It's bad enough Captain Rogers' kid is in jail.”

He ended the call and shot the asshole who'd rushed him a dirty look before heading back to sit down. The fact that he'd turned to brawling as a means to unleash his anger wasn't anything new, so really, no one should be surprised when that lifestyle finally caught up with him. Maybe what Clint had accused him of, that he wasn't happy unless he had something to fight for, held more truth than not.

The arraignment was a brief visit in front of the judge where he was formally charged with Third Degree Assault, a Class A misdemeanor that could result in up to a year in jail and a thousand dollar fine. The judge set his bond at only five hundred bucks given it was his first offense.

It meant he was out on bond before noon and walking from the detention center next to Clint with his head held low and his body sagging. He found several missed calls from his mother and a couple of texts from James asking if they could have coffee later. He asked for a rain check in favor of dragging himself into his own bed where he pulled the covers over his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a video I took inspiration from while writing Bucky dancing with his skirt in Yonkers: [Sergei Polunin Skirt Dance](https://youtu.be/-RQpGfzCexo)


	8. Hallelujah Junction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and James make a decision about their relationship before things go pear-shape again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Steve interacts briefly with one of his rapists in this chapter.
> 
> So there aren't any ballet terms in the dictionary I've been using for every letter of the alphabet. That being the case, I'll be using ballets to serve as titles for those chapters.
> 
> Also? I probably won't be near my computer tomorrow, so I figured you would like this a day early instead of a day late.
> 
> Thanks to Carbon65 for the information on Type I diabetes and insulin.

Two days later, he was still in bed. Actually, that was a lie. He was back in bed, which was where he spent all his free time if he wasn't at work or in class. Neena had taken one look at him the day after the incident and put him back in his cubicle to work on graphics rather than sending him to prep for the upcoming stage rehearsals. It was nice to be able to sit in his corner and do his work.

The bag containing that month's prescriptions sat unopened, the pills undisturbed, and the only reason he kept up with his insulin and thyroid medications was because Clint brought them to him inside his depression nest and stayed until he'd taken them. Really, he took advantage of his best friend's kindness on a much too regular basis. He wouldn't blame the man for dumping him like a hot rock.

What did come as some surprise was that James beat his own mother when it came to checking in on him which certainly wasn't his mother's fault and came with no indication as to how much she loved him. Sarah Rogers just knew her son well enough that a scolding while he was in his nesting phase would hurt more than it helped.

Allowing James to see the inside of his depression nest, on the other hand, didn't help. Clint just let the man into his room without any warning and before Steve could jump up and clear away the debris or hang an air freshener. The odor of unwashed body and dirty clothes had gotten bad again.

To the dancer's credit, he didn't so much as pause over the mess, merely settled himself on the edge of Steve's bed and rubbed a broad palm over Steve's back soothingly. “Your options are to come and have coffee with me in the light of day or go dancing with me tonight.”

“If this is a multiple choice quiz, can't I choose D: None of the above?”

“нет.”

The coldness behind James' eyes wasn't off-putting. It wasn't emotionless. It was just solid, a strong core that brooked no refusals and assured Steve that the battle was already lost. Sure, he could force James to leave, and James would go, but from one friend to another, there was no getting around the unexpected intervention.

“Fine. Coffee.”

“хорошо.”

It only took him a few moments to emerge in day-old clothes with a baseball cap over his hair.

“нет. Купать.”

“Bucky, I don't know if you know this about me, but I don't speak Russian.”

The other man said something that sounded disparaging in his native language before pointing toward the bathroom. “Bathe first.”

“Are you insinuating that I smell?”

“да.”

“That's rude.”

James shrugged.

Clint, nursing a bowl of cereal on the sofa, snickered.

“Oh, don't you start, too,” snapped Steve.

But in the end, he marched into the bathroom to take a hot shower. There was no way he was admitting to feeling marginally better after cleaning up. He wouldn't give his two babysitters the satisfaction, but neither made anything of it when he reemerged feeling more human. James murmured something Russian to Clint, who nodded and bumped fists with the dancer.

Steve was almost out the door when he stopped to shout back, “Since when do you know Russian?”

“State secret, Steve-O. If I told you, I'd have to kill you.”

He spared his bestie one final glance, assessing in nature, before allowing James to nudge him from the apartment. They wound up at Third Rail again tucked into a corner and nursing their drinks, Steve with a big cup of something frothy with a ridiculous sugar content and James with a cup of dark tea.

Silence settled between them while they watched people come and go. Once again, his companion didn't pressure him to talk and simply let him exist on the edges of society. It was nice. Eventually, Steve reached into his pocket for his little pill case and swallowed a sugar pill and his depression and anxiety meds.

“I feel like a pharmaceutical counter,” he murmured.

James raised a brow but didn't ask.

“I take an insulin injection for my Type One Diabetes. The pens are pretty expensive, though, so my vials have to stay at home where the temperature can be monitored easier. This one is for hyperthyroidism. When I was a kid, I used to be rail thin. I could eat three times what a normal person ate and couldn't gain a pound. My metabolism burned calories faster than I could pack them on. If I take this pill, I can maintain my body weight easier.”

His companion didn't speak but looked open, like he was interested and engaged.

“The pink one is for depression. This one is for anxiety, and I have two different inhalers. The one with the whale sticker is my daily asthma medication. The one with the giraffe is a rescue inhaler. I also have to carry epinephrin in the event I'm accidentally exposed to one of my allergies.”

“You seem to have managed well.”

He shrugged. “I couldn't go out much growing up. Used to sit at my window and watch the kids across the street at the park. Don't think there was a week that went by that I didn't have some kind of appointment. My childhood was...difficult.”

James placed a hand atop his.

Steve ducked his head to meet the other man's gaze for a few heartbeats. “You know what really pissed me off, though? The kids who assumed I should be grateful for not being able to gain a pound. They laughed and wished they had that problem and could eat the way I did. All I wanted to do was scream at them. Took me years of therapy to be able to eat in public without feeling like everyone was staring.

“So I started getting into fights. I'd see some bully picking on an overweight kid about eating in public, and I couldn't walk away because I knew what it was like to have every bite of food judged.

“Clint's been telling me how angry I am. I didn't realize he was right until the other evening when I got arrested. It's not that I wanted to be a hero to those kids I stood up for. I didn't. I just wanted the bullies to face the consequences of their actions. I wanted them to get what was coming to them.”

His companion squeezed his hand.

“And now Pierce and the others--”

That made the other man tense. “What others?”

He wasn't sure what James was asking at first. “Pierce wasn't the only one who raped me that night. There were two others. I saw them the day I ran into the street and was struck. They were at the gym I used to attend. But I don't know their names or how to bring them to justice.”

James swallowed a sip of tea before pulling out his phone to flip through until he presented it for Steve.

Steve knew the moment he laid eyes on them. His hand started shaking as he carefully accepted the phone. Breath whistled into his lungs past the constriction of his throat.

“Breathe.” His companion rested a warm palm in the center of his back.

The touch was grounding but not enough to stave off the attack, so he scrambled into the pocket of his jacket only to fumble the medications from the shaking of his hand. A soft murmur from James let him know of the impending touch as a hand snaked into his pocket and produced the giraffe inhaler. He took two puffs and chased it by swishing some coffee in his mouth.

“It's them?”

He nodded.

“Victor Creed and Mortimer Toynbee. They're on the soccer team with Alex. I'm so sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing? You didn't do anything wrong.”

“I'm sorry that you're hurting, that you have to endure any of this.”

Steve turned and tucked his chin over James' shoulder to give himself what little privacy was available. After a moment, he felt one of the other man's warm palms on the back of his head, caressing his hair and nape in soothing motions. An arm slid around James' waist. The warmth of his body, his nearness, the shape of him pressed up against Steve made him feel an itch under his skin, a desperation to be close to someone and drown out the cacophony inside his head.

James' voice washed over him. “Writhe and gape of tortured perspective. Rasp and graze of splintered normality. Crackle and sag of planes, clamors of collision. Collapse. As peacefully lifted into the awful beauty if sunset. The young city of putting off dimension, with a blush, enters. The becoming garden of her agony.”

A helpless need rose inside him. Clint couldn't be fussed with poetry. His ma didn't really understand the appeal, but James... James had entered into the works of E. E. Cummings for no other reason than because Steve was interested in the subject. No one had cared quite the way he cared.

“Take me home,” he breathed.

“Okay.”

But Steve stopped James when he tried to rise and pulled back to meet the man's glance. “Take me to your home. I want you to make me feel good, so I can forget.”

The dancer paused. “You're not just asking for a massage, are you?”

“No.”

“Steve.” It came out sounding forlorn, choked. James dropped his voice to a low rumble, whiskey-rough. “I want that with you. I think I've wanted you like that from the moment we met.”

“Then why are you waiting?”

“Because it would be for wrong reasons.”

Steve made a choked noise in the back of his throat.

“You don't want me right now, Steve. You want a distraction from how much you hurt. Distractions are normal, but not when they involve something so intimate. A week from now, you would feel like I had taken advantage.”

“Buck--” Steve started to protest only to have the dancer's thumb rest against his lips.

“Do not make this harder. Our hearts are broken. We should mend them before we give them to each other. Broken hearts are fragile things, easy to smash into smithereens. I may want your heart when I remember how to care for my own, but even if I do not, I respect you too much to risk hurting you more than you have already been hurt.”

“But you make me feel sexy.”

“That is good. You make me feel that way, too, and maybe when we are in better place, we can revisit conversation, but I will not risk you getting into bad thing, and I certainly will not risk myself.”

Steve wasn't sure if he felt rejected or angry that James considered him to be so weak, so he thought a strategic retreat was in order. He disentangled himself from the other man. “I'm going to go.”

A stab of something appeared on James' features, as the man moved back into his own personal space. It looked something like hurt. “Of course.”

“Thanks for the coffee and for getting me outside. I'll see you at work tomorrow.”

He looked back once to watch the other man sit at his window seat, head bowed, staring into what remained of his tea. Something in his chest ached. If they had only met before. If only the circumstances were different. One of the most damaging phrases in the English language was 'if only.'

Rather than going home, he called to see if he could maybe talk to Sam, who cleared his schedule and agreed to meet at the park where they usually spent time now. Steve got there first and claimed his preferred bench where he watched people going about their daily lives. He wondered what tribulations they were enduring. Was that woman speaking heatedly into her phone in the midst of an angry divorce after finding out her husband cheated on her? Would that frustrated med student blow his education because he suddenly discovered he couldn't handle the chaos of residency?

A familiar body dropped onto the bench beside him close enough their shoulders brushed. The man smelled like licorice and coffee, the reason for the latter becoming evident when Sam bumped his elbow and offered him one of two steaming cups he carried. Steve accepted gratefully.

They watched the familiar sights and listened to the familiar sounds of the park for a few minutes without speaking. Finally, Steve said, “I almost beat a man to death.”

Sam hummed around the rim of his cup to acknowledge he'd heard.

“He was attacking some guy with a knife, so I intervened. Everything went red. He's still in the hospital, and I have to go back to court on charges of aggravated battery.”

“So you started out saving a guy's life. You didn't just randomly jump some dude.”

“Yeah?”

“Don't get me wrong; I'm not condoning. You can't just randomly put people in the hospital even if they are asking for it. I'm concerned about you seeing red, though.”

“I--” He started and stopped twice more before finally speaking. “I felt like I was back in that alley being raped. If I couldn't protect myself then, I was damn sure going to protect myself this time.”

“That's a pretty normal emotional response.”

“It means I'm weak, Sam. I couldn't protect myself, and then I couldn't control myself. Why am I so goddamned wrong all the time?”

“Hey, remember what I said? Emotions aren't wrong. You feel the way you feel.”

“What am I supposed to do about it?” he asked with a bite to his tone. “I couldn't fucking control my health. I couldn't save myself from being raped. I couldn't stop from beating a guy near to death-- Oh.” The last slipped out on a breath, voice little more than the whisper of a feather touching ground.

“Oh?”

“I'm angry because I haven't felt like I've had any control my life.” The realization made him blink like an owl. “I felt it in my guts every time Ma had to write another check that was probably gonna bounce. I couldn't stop Nana from dying. I've always wanted to stop the bad things from happening but haven't really been able to and now, purposefully skipping my meds is my only way of asserting control.”

Sam swallowed a mouthful of coffee before asking, “Then how 'bout we get you feeling like you aren't on a southbound train to Hell. Maybe when you feel like you're on solid footing, we can work on helping you respond in a healthier fashion when you can't stop the bad things from happening.”

“Yeah.” Then, with less waver in his voice, he repeated, “Yeah. I'd like that.”

That evening, Clint and he went over to his ma's for dinner. First thing he did when the front door opened was to take his mother into his arms as he tried to wrap himself around her. The things he'd put her through growing up just to fulfill his hero complex were unforgivable.

They helped her make Irish stew. Clint was a moron in the kitchen. If he couldn't brown it in a skillet and throw a packet of spices on it, then it wasn't going to come out edible, sothey spent the time fighting over who got to chop what vegetables (Steve hated chopping carrots. Something about the texture of the knife sliding through the carrot turned him off, and Clint hated cutting onions) and sneaking swigs of the Guinness and red wine reserved for going in the stew.

By the time Ma got around to using both, the containers were half-empty, and she chased them from the kitchen with a wooden spoon yelling vulgarities. She put the pot on to simmer for a couple of hours and came into the living room to find Clint wearing her police hat and utility belt in the midst of a strip dance that didn't involve actually stripping anything. Her sharp-eyed glare was enough to get him to pipe down, at which point, he tucked tail and exclaimed “at least I wasn't arrested!”

Later, over bowls of piping hot stew and soda bread, Clint looked across the table at Sarah and finally muttered, “I want you to give me away.”

Sarah dropped her spoon to clatter against the rim of the bowl. “What was that?”

“Don't got any family left, and Bobbi doesn't like the idea of being given away like she's a piece of property. Thought it'd be nice if I got given away instead.”

“Oh.” Sarah blinked a few times which did nothing to dry the sudden influx of tears. “Oh Clint, of course, honey. Of course I would give you away.” Her chair scraped across the linoleum, and she hurried around to hug her arms around his shoulders. “Sweetheart, I would be honored to.”

Clint turned to press his face into her comforting embrace. “Thanks. I didn't know-- You're Catholic, so I didn't know if it'd be too non-traditional for you.”

“Oh sweetheart, you go right on and be your non-traditional self. Bobbi's such a lucky woman.”

Crying over Irish stew wasn't something Steve had ever expected to do, but he scooted his chair closer to wrap both of them up in an embrace. He could feel Clint shaking between them. “Hey, you didn't tell me that was something you were worried about. I coulda told you sooner it would be okay.”

“'S been so long since I had a real family I didn't know-- It sounds weird right? The guy getting given away? But I didn't want to leave it out. 'S the only wedding I'm ever gonna have.”

For someone who seemed so oblivious, Clint was surprisingly okay with being vulnerable, something over which Steve felt a sudden jolt of envy. Sometimes his own mind felt like a steel trap. Once the jaws snapped shut, he couldn't pry them open again, but Clint was like a duck; water rolled off his back. Clint was Steve Rogers' duckling. The thought put a smile on his face.

“Have you set a date?” Sarah asked.

“We're gonna go with a justice of the peace wedding. Don't wanna go thousands of dollars into debt just to get married, so we figured we'd head down to the courthouse some time next week. Once Bobbi finds out what her schedule is, we'll let you know.”

“Wait, next week?” Panic rocketed through Steve. “I haven't-- I should--”

“Stop panicking, buddy,” Clint interjected. “I didn't want you to move in the first place. You don't gotta be out by next week. Be nice if you cleaned up your room, though.”

Steve cringed.

Sarah cut in, “Steven Grant Rogers, is your room messy?”

Which was how he ended up spending the rest of the night sorting through his pig stye and trying to restore order to the previous madness. He couldn't ask his best friend to bring home his wife to an apartment that reeked like a gym locker. Gym lockers reminded him at the last minute of his appointment to spar with Rogue the following morning and that he couldn't do his class readings then.

Rogue was every bit the intimidating badass he remembered. She arrived punctually with a steaming cup of coffee and full of spit and vinegar with a dash of Southern charm. She put him through his warm-up. He didn't necessarily mind being snapped at when he lost his form as long as it came with that twangy southern draw that reminded him of Scarlet O'Hara and those elocution and deportment lessons he'd taken growing up in place of gym class.

She stopped after putting him on a bag to instruct, “You're punchin' all wrong, sugar. You don't just ball up the fist and take a wild swing. You gotta be keeping your fist aligned with your shoulder. Puts more power into it. Take a step forward while jabbin' and follow through.”

He watched her demonstrate, the way her fist extended even with her shoulder, how the power generated from her body instead of her bicep so that when she stepped clear, he could copy her motion. The difference was instantly noticeable. He could feel the hit land with solid support. By the end of their hour, he knew what he'd done wrong when fighting that guy in the alley.

Afterward, while mopping his body free of sweat, he sank onto a bench.

Rogue joined him and knocked her shoulder against his. “What're you lookin' to get outta this?”

“I need to know I can defend myself. I couldn't--” He broke off and took a deep breath. “Something bad happened to me, and I couldn't stop it. Didn't matter how big my muscles were. I couldn't--” A deep breath inflated his lungs and poised there for a ten count. “I shoulda been able to.”

“Learnin' self-defense is good, but unless you fix what's right in here, it ain't gonna make you feel no better about whatever hurt you.” She tapped his temple with a pointer finger.

“I shoulda been able to.” A harsh sound rumbled in the back of his throat born of frustration from not being able to express what he really wanted to express. Part of him couldn't even define it.

She patted his knee. “You ain't God, sugar.”

He didn't know what she meant and was still contemplating it when he entered the office at work to find the place in shambles and Neena practically pulling her hair out. A blond brow popped toward his hairline as she yanked through drawers in search of something, her dark hair tied back and face flushed in a way that darkened the birthmark around her eye.

“Trouble in paradise?” he asked after setting his messenger bag at his cubicle.

“Nobody can find Illyana, and she was in charge of the stage mock-up. Mr. Jarvis wants to be ready for stage rehearsals next week, but we can't get the damn stage prepped appropriately without it.”

“I'm assuming you've already tried her number.”

“Do I look like a complete moron, Rogers? Of course I've tried her number.”

“Is it normal for her to disappear like this?”

Neena froze mid-motion and looked at him, horror slowly souring her expression. “No.”

“Should someone maybe go and check on her?”

Whipcord fast, his boss grabbed a walkie from her back pocket to radio George, her second in command, that he should start prepping while she tried to find Illyana. Moments later, she was dressed in her coat and waiting beside the office door for him. “Well? Don't just stand there. Let's go.”

Asking why he was being dragged into search and rescue died on the tip of his tongue. Someone might be in trouble. That was more important than nursing a coffee and sketching. He joined her, and they hurried onto the street to catch a cab. The fact that their cabbie stared at him for a good portion of the trip to Queens made his guts clench with anxiety. Surely the cabbie had seen the newspapers. The man knew and was going to confront him. He was sure.

Only they stopped outside an apartment building, and Neena paid without any difficulty. The cold sweat making Steve clammy only abated once the driver pulled away without a word between them. It meant his guts were quivering with unspent adrenaline, his knees quaking inside their gray slacks and making climbing the stairs difficult.

Neena knocked.

There was silence from inside the apartment.

“I guess it was a long-shot anyway,” his boss commented.

They were turning away from the door when a noise from inside stopped them in their tracks. Something crashed. It was followed by a rhythmic noise like someone thumping against the floor to attract attention when they couldn't cry for help.

Steve stepped back and put his shoulder into the door. Once. Twice. A third time, and the door hardware finally gave under the pressure of his weight, allowing said door to crash inward and slap against the opposite wall. He charged inside ready to do battle and nearly screamed to a halt upon seeing the man James identified as Mortimer atop Illyana, who was battered and struggling to flee.

Fear and anger flooded Steve's system in one surge of adrenaline that trapped him, frozen, between fight or flight. His brain shouted that he should intervene. His feet had other ideas. They remembered what it had been like to be trapped beneath that man.

It could have been seconds or entire minutes that he stood there gaping before finally surging into motion. He grabbed Mortimer by his collar and thew him into a wall. The sun glinted off a gold pin.

Mortimer wasn't content to be pushed around, though, and swung at Steve, who didn't have enough room to dodge the fist that cracked against his jaw. Blood filled his mouth. He saw red. They tangled, his rapist fighting to get free while Steve swallowed the bile splashing into his mouth.

A meaty fist struck the side of his temple and sent him reeling. He stumbled backward but managed to catch the man before he could flee out the window onto the fire escape. His knee impacted between Mortimer's legs. The other man howled and doubled over long enough for Steve to wrap both hands around his rapist's throat. Part of his brain shouted _'restrain'_ in a litany.

Mortimer rasped, “Bet you still remember what I felt like buried in that tight ass. Best little screamer I ever fucked.”

Red blotted out his vision. _'Restrain'_ turned into a guttural howl, the sound of a hurt animal being hunted and cornered. He squeezed. He squeezed until his hands ached and snarled, “You didn't fuck me. You raped me while I was drugged.”

Sirens muffled by walls and distance seeped through the red.

Slim hands wrapped around Steve's wrists. “Rogers, ease up. The fucker deserves to die, but I suspect you won't forgive yourself if it's your hands that do the deed.”

The rest became a blur. Cops poured into the apartment. Two put Mortimer in handcuffs, who refused to look away from Steve, and Steve wanted so much to wipe that snotty sneer off the rapist's face, but he was already facing charges of assault and battery. He sure as Hell didn't need to add to his charges when Mortimer was already subdued, so he let it go by the thinnest of margins.

He gave a statement to the cops, but ultimately, Neena sent him back to work with the mock-up from Illyana's apartment while she went to the hospital with the injured woman. In short, it was not the sort of day where he wanted to worry about apologizing to James for the coffee shop yesterday, but he wasn't given a reprieve. The dancers were already on set walking through their various routines when Steve got back to work and joined the design crew.

It struck him that he'd never actually seen James dance before. He had a hard time taking his eyes off the man, and it wasn't just the mile-high jumps or the graceful spins that kept his eyes riveted to the stage. Even the little things sent heat racing down his spine. The way James laughed with Pietro in between sets, the way he dug his toes into the stage, the long, limber lines of his body showcased in a pair of tights and a baggy sweater.

George wound up nudging him in the ribs to get him to pay attention.

“S-sorry.”

“Don't get your hopes up with that one, Kid. You'd have better luck with an iceberg.”

Steve didn't even know what the guy was saying. How anyone could think that about James, about the way he slashed up the hardwoods with the fiery precision of his movements, was a mystery. There was a certain aloofness to James, but inside, the man was a firebrand.

***

Ignoring Steve during class had taken every ounce of his concentration, so he wasn't in the mood for anything but a hot shower and an early bedtime, two notions that were blasted right out of possibility when he stepped out of his shower stall and found Leo and his cronies hunched over a toilet tank. Either they had stopped caring about being caught or didn't think James would rat them out.

Once again, Leo extended his hand toward the cocaine lines.

Like last time, James walked away. They were free to do with their bodies as they liked.

He emerged from the locker room to find Steve leaning against a wall and worrying the sleeve of his sweater. The other man had made no attempt to contact him after coffee yesterday, so he rather thought they were on unsettled footing again. Turning Steve down had been easy. He found nothing sexy about taking advantage of someone when they were upset.

“Today has not been a very good day for me, so could we talk somewhere quiet?”

It may have been the first time Steve had suggested they do something. Being unsure of his reception, James nodded while shouldering his gym bag. Together, they walked to the Atlantic Grill and got seats at the bar. He'd skipped breakfast that morning and needed to eat before weight training, so they shared an order of lobster and shrimp spring rolls.

“I wanted to apologize for yesterday,” Steve said. “You just got out of a long-term relationship. The way I came onto you was insensitive of me. It feels like I wanted to use you as a distraction now.”

He nodded once while contemplating the rest of his spring roll. “Steve, I like you. Too much.” Another pause interrupted his comment. “But it would be foolish to become item?”

Steve's expression was unreadable, and he was silent for a few moments before finally asking, “Why would it be foolish?” A beat of silence passed. “You're right, though.”

James could only hope his disappointment at the speed with which his companion agreed didn't show on his expression. And he was disappointed, however contradictory that was to his statement.

The other man continued, “You don't-- You shouldn't have to tolerate my baggage, and like it or not, I'll go into my next relationship with baggage. I don't even know if I can ever have a healthy relationship with sex again after what happened.”

Hearing that kind of self-doubt spurned him into sliding his palm over Steve's hand. “It's not that. How is it said? The relationship after breakup is rebound? I like you too much to be rebound.”

Steve's Adam's apple bobbed. “Then where does that leave us?”

“Friends?”

His companion agreed with a nod.

Things were awkward between them for the next few days, made worse by the fact the design team was fully invested in working around the dancers as they utilized the performance stage to judge how their dancing filled up the space. They ignored each other for the most part, though James was always aware of Steve's presence. Having the man near charged the atmosphere, and he didn't want to admit that maybe he danced with more precision and grace than normal with Steve there.

That all changed one ordinary Wednesday. Mr. Jarvis sat in the front row to direct them while they ran through one of the climactic scenes, one in which the soldier had to make a choice to climb the mountain or remain broken. He ached from redoing the steps to Mr. Jarvis' satisfaction, so he flopped down in the middle of the stage during a short break while the company's therapist worked on his feet.

“The scene needs something,” Mr. Jarvis commented. “It has nothing to do with your solo, Mr. Barnes. That's fantastic, but this is the Soldier's turning point.”

Natalia, after swallowing a mouthful of water, suggested, “Why does the mountain have to be static?”

“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Jarvis.

“Why can't we represent the mountain through another dancer?”

Quiet settled around the stage.

Mrs. Jarvis was the first to speak up, saying, “The idea has merit. If we incorporate another dancer, then Mr. Barnes has someone with which to create a more dynamic representation.”

Mr. Jarvis made a hand gesture that brought the rest of the male dancers forward. “Arkady.”

James looked over at the other man. Arkady had a significant amount of bulk but was still a good two inches shorter than James and slimmer. Still, they were professionals and started working through a routine together while the rest of the company moved on to chorus dancing.

They tried to incorporate some martial moves, but his new partner had trouble concentrating and wound up taking a face full of James' hand when he didn't evade the way he should have. So they tried a lift to symbolize the mountain helping him dig out of the depths of despair. It worked the first time, but when they ran through it in front of Mr. Jarvis, the whole thing collapsed, as Arkady simply couldn't support his weight well enough to stabilize the move.

It ended with both of them nursing friction burn and some pretty astounding bruises from landing on the hardwood of the stage floor. James untangled himself from his partner. No one realized anything was wrong until Arkady didn't move.

Panicking, James rolled him over to find blood gushing from the man's nose and his eyes rolled backward. Tremors turned into convulsions, and all he could think to do was turn the other dancer onto his side to prevent him from choking on his tongue. Staff physicians took over from there.

James backed into the arms of Natalia, whose voice turned husky and soothing. All anyone could do was watch as their colleague was carted from the building on a stretcher to be rushed to the emergency room. It was an unsettling turn of events. He couldn't help but wonder if he'd done something wrong, but his mind kept turning back to the cocaine habit Arkady shared with Leo and Dimitry.

Things settled after the paramedics left, and Mr. Jarvis said, “It was a good idea, Ms. Romanova, but Mr. Barnes is of such a size that finding anyone big enough to do anything dynamic would be impossible. No offense intended, of course.”

That was that, and they carried on with the day's class until a break wherein everyone realized Mr. Jarvis wasn't looking at them but at something in the background. James turned to find Steve helping the props crew distribute large, polystyrene boulders around. James' head cocked to the side.

Their master in chief called, “Mr. Rogers, could you come front and center for a moment?”

Steve wiped his hands off on a pair of paint-soiled jeans and did as requested, standing side by side with James. Steve was taller and noticeably broader, a fact that was emphasized by a shirt that was a size smaller than it should have been for decency's sake.

James knew where this was headed immediately and experienced a spike of adrenaline. “He has considerable ballroom dance experience, Sir. If I worked with him, we could come up with something to cover his lack of ballet training.”

“What?” Steve asked.

“Do you think it would work?” asked their master in chief.

“I think the idea has a stunning aesthetic. There's still most of two months before the season starts. That would be enough time.”

“I'm sorry. Can someone please explain to me what's going on,” interrupted Steve.

Natalia was the one who spoke, touching the larger man's elbow and responding, “You're going to be our mountain, Steve, the thing which helps the Soldier ascend.”

“But I'm not a ballet dancer.”

“No,” Mr. Jarvis began, “you're going to be a jungle gym.”

Steve, bless him, seemed keen to try and turned up later that night for his first lesson wearing jeans and a polo shirt. James immediately stuffed a bundle of cloth into his arms and pointed toward the locker rooms, prompting a snicker from Natalia, who lounged near the sound system with an ice machine bubbling away on her elbow from a hard fall that morning. No amount of cushioned mats could prevent injury in the ballet world where dynamic lifts made or broke a pas de deux.

James realized his mistake the moment Steve returned with hunched shoulders and pigeon-toed feet. Urging him to stand up straight revealed the mistake. Mr. Olympia stretched the capacity of his tights to the point he imagined thousands of little screams echoing from thousands of little fibers stretched on medieval torture wracks. Also? James had forgotten that Steve didn't have a dance belt.

He swallowed hard.

“Little spider, we need--”

“Oh my.”

“I can't help it!” Steve exclaimed, his face red as a beet. “It's not like I have a convenient shrink-ray machine to deal with—”

“No, we can fix this. Natalia.”

“I will be back soon. Start him on stretching exercises. Or make him turn and face-- On reflection, perhaps you should get him a towel until my return.”

He swallowed thickly and required a few minutes to drag the blood back up to his upper head before he could conceive of starting Steve on anything noteworthy. In fact, he didn't realize his companion had said anything until he finally met the other man's eyes and saw expectation there.

“Could you repeat?”

“I was saying this shouldn't be too difficult since I keep myself active.”

The comment rasped across numerous sensitive spots that had been worn thin by a society that considered dancing a feminine persuasion and therefore not difficult. Any sympathy he may have had for Steve flew right out the window, and he started him on stretching with a razor edge to his instructions. Because a dancer put in as much work as any athletic star but was paid considerably less. Because dancing required the stamina to pull off a ninety minute show with only one intermission while making it look effortless.

By the time Natalia returned with a dance belt, Steve was already drenched in sweat and practically dragged himself across the floor to heave his trembling body onto a bench. James tossed him a bottle of lukewarm water so as not to shock his system with ice cold water and a packet of almonds before tearing into his own snack.

Natalia chuckled and spoke in Russian. “He assumed this would be easy, didn't he.”

“Yes. I was incredibly disappointed at his lack of empathy.” When he spoke again, it was in English. “Five minute break. Go and put this on beneath your tights, and we'll begin.”

“We haven't begun already?” squeaked Steve.

James husked a laugh.

For the next hour, they worked on putting together a routine that would incorporate Steve without forcing him to take a crash course in ballet. They started with simple lifts that would allow them to create geometric shapes, because even with Steve's bulk, he wasn't sure they could complete anything as dynamic as was possible with a male and female dancer.

That, however, was where Steve surprised him. They started with James bracing his weight on Steve's calf, gripping his shoulders, and lifting his free leg skyward. It was simple. The bigger man didn't strain while providing a counterweight to keep them both balanced. It meant they went bigger.

Eventually, James was able to run at Steve and launch himself in the air enough for Steve to catch him around his hips and push him toward the ceiling into a présage lift. He felt miles above the ground, a shot of adrenaline spiking through him as he held his body compact to maintain balance.

Coming down wasn't necessarily fun, though.

After their lesson, James volunteered to drive Steve back to his apartment. He parked at the curb. “Take a hot shower and ice your muscles. It's all right to take ibuprofen for the soreness.”

“I take back everything I ever said about dancers,” wheezed Steve.

He chuckled and reached over to squeeze the nape of Steve's neck. “You did well.”

Silence descended between them as his companion fiddled with his keys.

Both started to say something at the same time, prompting a laugh before he moved his hand to indicate Steve should go first.

“Clint is getting married in a couple of days. It's nothing fancy, but I wondered if you wanted to attend. You and Clint seem to get along well.”

“I'd like that.”

“Good. I'll text you with the details. I'm happy for him, but his girl and me don't get along very well. Pretty sure I'm going to start apartment hunting soon. Maybe I can get a little studio nearer to work.”

“Will you be able to manage?” James cringed. “Sorry. You Americans and your inexhaustible bootstraps might find that rude question.”

“What do you mean?”

“The phrase 'pull yourself up by bootstraps' seems to be motto of America. You want to live in community without responsibility of looking out for each other when you fall on hard times.” He cringed again. “Sorry. My language is not so good tonight.”

“What have I said all this time? You don't have to stop being Russian just because you're an American citizen now. You do you, James.” A beat of silence passed. “I suppose we are made to feel bad if we fall on hard times and can't support ourselves. I'll find something, even if I just sublet a room.”

James tilted his head back against the headrest. Steve mirrored his position, and they looked at each other for a few minutes, drinking in the blue of each other's eyes. It was peaceful. He experienced a jolt of longing. It would be so easy to lean forward and kiss Steve until they were breathless. Somehow, it seemed like an inevitability. The stars were aligning with the sole intent of forcing James and Steve into each other's orbits.

Eventually, Steve murmured, “I should go.”

“You should.”

Only neither of them moved.

“I have to go to the station tomorrow for an interview. Oh, they picked up Mortimer Toynbee.”

Relief loosened his muscles. “That is good.” He thought to add, “Do you need-- Would you like me to drive you? We don't have class tomorrow.”

“I-- Y-yeah. Yeah, that would be a huge help.”

They hammered out the details, and only then did Steve finally exit the car. James waited until the other man had keyed through the front door before pulling away from the curb.

It had been a good day, and because it had been a good day, James should have suspected a storm was about to break. The first rattle of thunder and lightning came in the way of Alexander Pierce standing in the middle of his apartment when he keyed inside. His heart stopped for two painful beats. When it restarted, it did so at a thunderous pace. He backed toward the door.

“What are you--” He swallowed heavily. “W-what are you doing?”

“Whatever do you mean? I'm on the lease, sweet boy.”


	9. Ivesiana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are darkest before the dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise mid-week chapter! You'll still get a chapter on Friday too.
> 
> Warnings: Rape / non-con (rape between long-term partners is very real). Threat of harm against an animal. Domestic abuse. Panic attack at a sports rally. If anyone has any concerns or would like more in-depth information on the warnings, feel free to send me an ask on [Tumblr](http://marleymortis.tumblr.com/).
> 
> The app discussed in this chapter can be found here: https://www.whengeorgiasmiled.org/the-aspire-news-app/ for anyone who is interested in doing more research on it.

“How did you get out of jail?” James demanded of Alex.

“Bail, darling. We are heading toward a championship season, after all. Coach Schmidt realized the team doesn't work as well without me, so he posted bail.”

Ivan yowled from the bathroom.

Tension snapped James taut. He thought his whole body would shatter. “The locks were changed.”

Alex chuckled and took a step forward. “Maintenance gave me a set of keys. Why don't we sit down and talk about how you treated Victor when he was just trying to look out for you?” His ex-fiance moved a hand toward the sofa. “It was very rude how you threw him out of our home.”

He scrambled backward a step to maintain the distance between them. Ivan yowled again, an unhappy sound that suggested he was in distress. While he wanted nothing more than to go rescue the cat, he didn't dare try to dodge around Alex until the man was otherwise distracted.

“I want you to leave. We aren't engaged anymore.”

“Darling, think about what you're saying. You're not just throwing away three years over some silly extra-marital affair with a nobody, are you?”

“It wasn't an affair; you raped him!” 

Ivan's distressed sounds were getting louder.

Unable to ignore the noise, he finally broke right to dash toward the bathroom only to come against Alex's solid body. The man's hands closed around James' biceps to propel him against the nearest wall. The breath left his body from the impact. 

“Of all the people I thought would be in my corner, you were at the top of the list. Why would I have to go and rape someone when you satisfy me so well?”

“You mean like Brock and Jasper?” he snapped, suddenly angry.

Alex backhanded him.

The blow was such a shock his head snapped back against the wall. Bitter, metallic blood filled his mouth from biting his cheek in the process. He was stunned. Alex had never hit him before, had never even hinted about hitting him before. The violence left him very afraid.

Alex looked horrified for about a split second before surging forward and cupping James' cheeks. “Oh God, I'm so sorry. Baby, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to. It's just that things have been awful lately, what with being in jail and having my good name dragged through the mud. Fuck.” Tears spilled over and glided down on the man's cheeks.

James temporarily couldn't formulate a response.

“Shit. Fuck. Darling, forgive me. You've gotta forgive me. I don't know what I would do if I didn't have you.” Strong arms pulled James into the shelter of a familiar chest. “Please, sweetheart. Say you forgive me. Let's just forget about Brock and Jasper and start over. Okay?”

It was funny how just a couple of weeks of time spent apart could bring clarity. There was a time he would have fallen for Alex's apology. Finding his voice was still tough. The cold, Lyovikhan part of him sheltered James when he said, “You're going to move out. I will take over the lease.”

Alex looked like he'd been kicked in the gut by a horse. “No. No, Baby, you've gotta give me a chance to make it up to you. We're going to set a wedding date. After the season is over, we'll get married. I'll get a political position. You'll transfer to whatever company is nearest to my office, and we'll be happy together. James, darling, I'm going to make you so happy.”

“It's over, Alex. It's been over for a long time.”

“No.” The simple statement came out rigid and determined, and he grasped James' shoulders and pressed him into the wall. “It's only over when I say it is.”

Ivan's yowls intensified, and by that point, James would have agreed to suck Satan's ass if it meant he was able to find out what was wrong with his cat, so he nodded.

Alex sagged with relief. “Go and shower. I'll order in for us. Then we'll discuss what happened to your engagement ring, which is nowhere in this apartment.”

James hurried away as soon as he could, steps faltering when he entered the bathroom to find Ivan suspended off the floor by his collar looped around a nail. The cat was struggling mightily to twist himself down but was unable to get enough leverage to slip out of his collar. Fear raced right through his heart, and he carefully unfastened it to extricate Ivan, getting a few scratches himself from the terrified feline. He cuddled the cat and slid down to sit on the floor, tears welling and spilling over.

Alex wouldn't leave. The apartment manager wouldn't evict him as long as he kept paying his share—a much smaller portion—of the rent, and if James broke the lease, he wouldn't be able to pay the fine and have enough left over to get a new place. He could ask Revekka to let him stay at her place for a while, but she lived in a tiny apartment with her boyfriend.

For the night, he showered mechanically and put Ivan inside his carrier where the cat seemed content to hide for the time being. He went to bed early but hardly slept given the warmth and weight of Alex sleeping beside him and looping an arm over his waist possessively. It felt like an age passed before the sky lightened toward morning.

Alex woke with morning wood snugged up against James' ass. He tried to get up and sneak away with the hopes his ex might ignore the condition and go about their usual morning routine, but that was too much to ask of the universe. The man woke with a soft chuff of sound and rocked his erection against James' ass. A soft murmur seemed to ask if he was in the mood.

It was not a real question, only a thin veil of asking for consent. To say no, he feared, would spiral into a fight that would lead to something more damaging, so he hummed his agreement and canted his hips back to give the man access to his asshole. Enough time had passed since he'd been fucked that spit wasn't going to cut it. Alex didn't even try to finger him before pressing inside.

The burn was intense, but he swallowed any sounds of distress and went through the motions of rocking his hips, tried his best to feign pleasure to avoid an argument about how he wasn't into it anymore. He wanted to shout _'News Flash, that happens when you're a rapist and a creep'_ but knew better than to give voice to it. Having the foreign thing invading him was bad enough.

By the time Alex came inside him, the other man was loose and relaxed enough to slip out of bed, at which point James reached for his phone. His ex snatched hold of his wrist in a bruising grip, physically preventing him from bringing the device to his ear.

“What are you doing?”

He scrambled for a response that would keep the peace. “Calling Natalia to let her know I will not make for coffee this morning. If I do not show, she will be concerned.”

The other man eased his grip. “God, I forgot how Russian you still sound sometimes. Can't you do any better? Also, I want you to erase Rogers' contact information.”

That said, Alex disappeared into the bathroom to shower.

As soon as he was alone, he changed Steve's contact information and texted Revekka to ask her to cat sit for a while. His twin would know what the question really meant and hopefully bring help, but if Alex checked his phone, he wouldn't realize the SOS. Sliding back into old habits, listening to the Angel's voice inside his head, was easier and would minimize the number of people who could be hurt.

He was up and making coffee by the time his tormentor exited the bathroom to dress in loose sweats and a tank top, at which point, the man came to stand behind him. Strong arms looped around James' waist. Lips nuzzled at the juncture where shoulder met neck.

“You didn't come this morning.”

“Class has been exhausting,” he responded.

“You should rest more.”

“Maybe tomorrow. I need to go into class today.”

A soft hum was muzzled against his neck. “Today is your off day. I thought we would stay in.”

“I have errands to run.”

“That wasn't a question, sweet boy. Ivan has been rambunctious lately. I would hate for him to get hurt because you weren't here to keep an eye on him.”

“I don't know if you realize this, Alex, but I'm older than you. It's unbecoming for you to call me that.”

“It sounds nice, though. You're mine to take care of.”

Revekka wasn't able to pick up Ivan that day or the day after, as she had gone on a long weekend upstate with Dino. Mamochka had gone back to California, and he didn't dare get Steve involved given everything that had happened between Alex and him. It meant James was stuck in the apartment for fear Alex would do something to hurt the cat if he wasn't around to protect him.

It was the longest twenty-four hours of his life. Going through the motions of being a happy couple was so much harder than it had been before. All he wanted to do was throw something at his tormentor's smug face in the hopes of wiping that look away, and Alex? Alex was attentive in ways he hadn't been before, so James couldn't slip away and pack an emergency bag to flee at the earliest opportunity. He was stuck, trapped like a mouse ready to tear its leg off to escape the trap.

Brittle glass replaced the iceberg buried in his core, so when they went to bed that night and Alex wanted to fuck, he went along with it again just to keep the peace. He cried his way through it, face pressed into the pillow and chewing the inside of his cheek to muffle any sounds he might make. One slipped past, a pained yelp when Alex pumped too hard. It resulted in a hard pinch that left his hip bruised for a week afterward and a command to stop being a wimp.

By the time Monday rolled around, he was exhausted and frayed. Alex watched him pack his gym bag, preventing him from squirreling away any of the important documents he would need, things like his birth certificate, his new social security card, the certificate of his citizenship, things necessary for him to start over somewhere else.

On his way out, he stooped to grab Ivan's carrier only to have Alex grasp his hand and smile. “Ivan and I will be great friends today. Won't we, Ivan.” The cat hissed in response.

“Alex--”

Whatever he would have said was muffled against the other man's lips, who swooped in for a kiss. “Have a good day at class, darling. Try not to be late, Ivan misses you when you run late.”

James was sick inside the locker room when he made it to the studio. First thing he did was vomit in a toilet, and when Leo, Dimitry, and a couple of others invited him to share a line of coke, he was so tempted to give in, so tempted to make himself numb to what was happening in his personal life.

Pietro interrupted. “Yasha, can I talk to you out in the hall? Now.”

After a moment's indecision, he followed Pietro outside.

“Since when are you friends with Leo and his crew?”

Silence.

The other man lowered his voice. “Yasha.”

“Please leave me alone.”

“Arkady is out for the season. Found out he was dancing high on cocaine when you two attempted that lift. Took so much cocaine he almost died in the hospital. Mr. Jarvis put him on suspension for the season and is thinking about terminating his contract.”

“I don't--”

“You have to care. They look up to you. Everyone looks up to you.”

James jerked away from the other dancer and snarled, “I can't do this right now.” Because it was his fault. His fault. His fault. His faul--

“Yasha.” Pietro's voice was too quiet.

Don't tell. Don't tell. Don't tell. Don't te--

A black dress. A white apron. A red cross. Thick heels clunking against concrete. He folded himself tighter into the crack he'd slithered into. Silence. Arms around head. Hide. Hide. The hush of death. A buzz. The light bulb overhead buzzing.

The Angel of Death.

Her face.

A scream.

“How did you get down here, little Yasha?”

Gnarled fingers grabbed his arm. Hauled him from the crack he'd been hiding in. Jars. All around him jars filled with dead things. The Angel of Death and her collection. Corpses. Corpses of babies. Arms pulled him against a heavy bosom. Smashed his face there until drawing breath was impossible.

“Don't tell, little Yasha.” Her sweet, sweet voice like Christmas bells. “Don't tell. If you tell, I'll pull every one of your teeth out. If you tell, I'll rip your tongue out.”

James came to on the floor on his side, head pillowed in Pietro's lap. A throng of people surrounded him. Natalia's face swam in front of his eyes, and she looked so, so concerned. The throng parted enough for paramedics to gain access to him, at which point, they started cataloging his vitals.

“I'm fine,” he insisted. “I don't need to go to hospital.”

“You had a seizure,” Natalia explained.

“I can't miss anymore classes. They'll take him away.”

“Who, little soldier?”

“The winter soldier. I'm fine now. I promise.”

The paramedics were reluctant to leave without him, but he willingly signed several forms that he was acting against medical advice and was competent enough to answer their questions, so they had no choice but to leave without him.

He sat against the wall to gather his wits, and they were content to allow him to rest while they went about getting ready to move class over to the David Koch Theater. It gave him time to flip through his phone looking for any alternatives to his situation. The shelters for domestic abuse victims were full or didn't accept pets. There was no scenario in which he left without Ivan.

Eventually, he found a link for a hotline catering to gay, lesbian, and trans victims, which he marked for later study. He also found a link to the Aspire News App, which allowed him to send a prerecorded message to contacts of his choosing at the press of a button in the event he needed immediate help. The best thing about it was that it looked like a regular news app. Alex wouldn't know he was sending out a message just by looking at it. 

He fiddled with app for a few minutes until he recorded a message that said _'Alex is abusing me. Please send the police to my apartment now.'_ As contacts, he selected Rivka, Natalia, and Steve. That way, if the situation at home spiraled out of control, he could get help at the push of a button without his tormentor seeing him dial emergency services.

Armed with information and new strategies for dealing with the situation, he was able to calm down enough to spend the rest of the day dancing. And if he danced with more anger than before? At least they were working on a scene that required that kind of intensity.

***

Steve's weekend could be categorized as insane. Friday afternoon, he escorted Clint to the court house where they met Bobbi and her friend, Maria Hill for the wedding. Bobbi chose a simple white pantsuit with classic lines and a double-breasted jacket while Clint went with a traditional black suit. 

Both parties appeared nervous, and Steve wondered if they wouldn't back out at the last second what with the way his roommate made like a rabbit and bounced like he wanted to be anywhere but at his own wedding. Steve did what he could to calm the man, which wasn't much in the grand scheme of things. Thankfully, Ma arrived shortly thereafter, at which point, she took charge of Clint.

Bobbi, Maria, and Steve waited near the justice of the peace's desk while Clint, hanging onto Ma's arm, walked into the room to the wedding march. Steve wasn't sure whether to tear up at seeing his best friend all grown up and getting married or scowl at Bobbi for being the interloper that came between them. One look at Clint's fiance assured him the feeling was mutual, the woman caught like a deer in headlights between emotions and fear.

The thing was that whether or not they were making a mistake wasn't Steve's issue to deal with. The only thing he had to do was be there in the event the whole thing fell apart. Clint had certainly never changed his mind just because Steve thought he was making a bad decision.

So he stood beside the man while his best friend promised to love, honor, and obey. He stood beside them while Bobbi said “I do,” while they exchanged rings, while the justice of the peace pronounced them husband and wife, and even while they exchanged a brief kiss at the end of the ceremony. He stood there while it was all going on and fretted over James unexpectedly canceling.

Steve was an adult. He knew things came up despite a person's best intentions, so he shouldn't be so disappointed at the other man's failure to attend. Shouldn't be but was, as the dancer had canceled a lot of engagements lately but never offered an explanation as to why.

All he could do, though, was support his best friend and make nice with Bobbi when they took the newlyweds out to a little hole in the wall Indian place where Clint and Bobbi had had their first date for the informal reception. It was a pleasant enough affair despite Steve's morose attitude, and boy did he feel guilty for having to fake his way through being happy for his best friend.

After dinner, they dropped the newlyweds off at the apartment, and Steve went home with his ma's to give them the apartment alone for the night. Being with his ma wasn't a hardship. They stayed up late watching old episodes of Star Trek and binge-eating Indian leftovers until they'd boldly gone where all men had gone before: straight to the medicine cabinet for heart burn tablets.

His Monday morning ethics class was a drag. Professor Stark had another hangover and seemed more subdued than usual. Baron Zemo wasn't in class, and Clint had taken the morning off to spend with Bobbi. It meant he found himself outside and unaccompanied near the student center afterward. The place was abuzz with an unusual amount of school pride, as a group of students had gathered to hold an informal rally for the Violets soccer team.

Never in a million years did he expect to see Alex Pierce out of jail and standing in their midst with a bullhorn shouting encouragement to get the fans riled up. He never expected to see those hard, blue eyes flick in his direction again, at least not until the trial. The Earth moved under his feet.

He didn't realize it meant he was running until he slammed into a knot of bodies. Hands grabbed him. Voices melded into susurrus noise that seemed far removed from him. He struggled against the hands.

“Where ya going, friend? Don't ya wanna hang around for the rally?”

“Think he'd be proud to get Alex's cock in his ass.”

“Can't do no better than Alex Pierce.”

Drowning. The cacophony rose to choke him.

“Back the fuck off, assholes!”

“Move. Now.”

Gentler hands grasped him to pull him free from the rally, but he couldn't appreciate it when he was busy having an asthma attack. Someone patted his pockets. Someone else finally located a rescue inhaler from his bag and pressed it to his lips. He took a couple of puffs. Only that allowed his vision to clear enough to make out Billy, Teddy, and Faiza Hussain standing over him.

“You're safe now,” Billy intoned. “Can you breathe all right?”

He nodded, his motions jerky.

“T-thanks.”

“No need,” Teddy said.

“Let's make sure you're breathing's calm,” Faiza, a medical student, suggested. She wore a black hijab with yellow sunflowers embroidered on it. “Can you take a deep breath for me?”

He did as instructed, grabbing her hand to have something to ground himself back in reality. Breath still whistled through tight airways, but at least he was getting oxygen again.

“You still don't sound very good. Can you focus on calming down so you're oxygenating properly? Is there someone we can call to come and get you?”

He shook his head. Clint was busy. Ma was at work. James would be in class right now. “S-sam W-wilson. He works in the w-wellness center.”

Sam, bless his heart, left one of his graduate level lectures to meet Steve at his office in the student wellness center where he could explain the situation. It was only then he realized something else; James might not know Alex was out on bail. He texted the other man while waiting for Sam to arrive.

His therapist bustled inside with a messenger bag over his shoulder and a coffee thermos resting haphazardly on a stack of books. Steve shot up to take the thermos before it could tip over and waited for the other man to get settled.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Sam began.

“You're kidding. I'm the one who's sorry for dragging you out of class. Going for your PhD, right?”

“Steve, I told you once to call me any time of the day or night for emergencies. Please don't feel guilty for reaching out when you need someone to talk to. Now, I suspect this has something to do with that rally outside for the soccer team.”

He nodded. “I didn't know he'd been bonded out. All of a sudden, he's right there in my face, and I-- I flipped out.”

“The way I heard it some of his goons got in your face.”

“I-I could handle that part. W-what people s-say about me doesn't hurt as much as s-seeing him.”

“So you've been avoiding social media the way I suggested?”

“Ye-yeah.”

“Good. There's a concept that's sometimes referred to as a monkeysphere that claims each person is only capable of seeing a limited number of people as really human. It goes along with the concept of Dunbar's number which claims that we can only sustain social relationships with a certain number of individuals. Because you're outside their monkeysphere, they can't empathize with you like they would with a member of their social group. It allows them to dissociate themselves from their insults.”

“Still not fun to be on the receiving end.”

“Of course not. Aside from today's attack, how are you? Have you been taking your medications?”

Steve nodded.

“Have they been helping?”

“Not as much as they did at first.”

“The medication has built up in your system and leveled off. Let's give it another month and then reevaluate where you are. We might need to have your doctor change the dosage.”

He folded his hands in his lap and smoothed the thumb of one hand across the knuckles of the other, unsure of what to say or how to describe what it felt like being inside his own chest and mind. A strange sense of numbness washed over him now that the panic attack was over. There was a vague sense that he should be angry over Alex being bonded out, that he should be terrified his attackers would come after him again, but he couldn't feel anything but empty.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

“I don't know. I suppose I'm just processing.”

Sam, being the absolute joy that he was, redirected so Steve didn't feel the suffocating claustrophobia of being under a stage spotlight. “Clint got married Friday, right?”

It jump-started his faculties enough that he went with the conversation, describing his concerns about how nervous they were. Sam helped him to understand how normal their behavior was. Most newlyweds were nervous when they married, apparently, though his only experience with the idea of marriage stemmed from Nana and Poppy. Even after forty-five years of marriage, they had woken every morning somehow more in love than the evening before, right up until Poppy's death during Steve's eleventh year of life.

They talked about Steve still toying with the idea of moving out to give Bobbi and Clint their own space, but Sam stressed that he should let Clint and Bobbi make the choice on their own if they wanted their own place. He readily admitted that the idea of finding a roommate and moving in with a stranger left him feeling cold right down to the core.

He even addressed his concerns about James' recent rash of emotional withdrawal. They still practiced every day—Steve was developing muscles he didn't know the body possessed—and rehearsed on stage for Mr. Jarvis. But he could feel the other man's tension like a canker in the pit of his stomach.

Only then did Sam circle back around to the incident by the student center.

“I don't necessarily know what I felt besides panic. Seeing him was like jumping naked into an icy lake, and everything narrowed to this tunnel that only allowed me to see him.”

“Given your anxiety disorder, that's not unusual. What I want you to start practicing is your breathing techniques. The next time you're triggered, try taking ten deep breaths and stepping back from whatever is triggering you. It's okay if it doesn't work well. It's the trial and error that's key.”

Hysterical laughter lodged in his throat. He wanted to snap over the mere suggestion he was self-aware enough during an episode to breathe let alone count his breathing but redirected his anger by looking at a poster hanging behind Sam's head. It advertised a Pride event working in conjunction with the VA to help make contact with LGBTQIA veterans.

“Are you...?” He moved his chin toward the poster.

“Hell yeah, man. My boss put me in charge of our push to reach out to LGBTQIA veterans. It's only been recently that DADT was repealed. A lot of older veterans might not even realize that the VA is a safe place for them to receive care given our military's horrendous history with queer soldiers.”

Steve flinched. “I don't like that word.”

Sam smiled warmly. “Okay. I won't use it around you. Being bisexual, it was a word I felt I should reclaim for myself, but I totally understand if you're uncomfortable with it.”

That had been surprisingly easy. No confrontation. No insistence he should take back the word from homophobes, just a quiet agreement to allow Steve to make his own choices on what language he associated with. He should have known. Sam was one of the most understanding people alive.

“You could stop by our booth if you wanted and help hand out fliers.”

“Really?”

“Of course. We're always looking for volunteers to work these outreach events.”

He felt better. There was life outside his trauma. It was as far from how he'd felt two months ago as the sun was from Uranus, so by the time he left Sam's office, he could breathe again and didn't do more than glance apprehensively toward the student center where the rally was ongoing. What surprised him was finding Billy and Teddy, who always seemed to be attached at the hip, awaiting him outside.

Billy greeted him with a charming smile. “Feel any better?”

“Much, yeah. Thanks.”

Teddy rumbled in his deep baritone, “We wanted to walk you to the bus stop.”

“You know, past all this craziness and those absolute bastards who take pleasure in being cruel.”

“Guys, that's--” No words came close to describing his gratitude. It wasn't necessarily because he needed to have his hand held to walk past the student center. It was because they cared enough to wait around for him. They cared enough to want him to feel safe.

Words failing him, he simply touched his hand to his heart and blinked back the moisture he felt stinging his eyes. Together, they strolled past the crowd and their raised voices and triumphant cheers, and with Billy on one side and Teddy on the other, he didn't feel the ground move beneath him when he caught the briefest glimpse of Alex's sandpaper stubble and square jaw.

It was before dinner time when he made it home with the intention of packing dinner and going to the dance studio early for his lesson. He didn't realize anyone was home, so when he opened the bathroom door and bounded inside, the last thing he expected was Bobbi's shriek of indignation. All he saw was a shock of bare skin in the midst of stepping out of the shower.

He retreated so fast he damn near tripped over a stack of books and went flying.

“Have you ever heard of knocking?” she shouted, voice rising like a fiery sermon in a cathedral.

“I'm sorry!”

“And for fuck's sake, put the goddamn toilet seat down when you're done. I about fell in this morning.”

Steve experienced a sudden surge of anger. She was the interloper, not him, but there she was making demands and asking him to change routines that were ingrained in him from living the bachelor life for the past six years like she was the goddamn queen of Sheba.

“There are locks on doors for a reason,” he huffed.

“They're broken, Rogers. I don't know if you know this, but they're fucking broken.”

Oh. Right. Clint had disabled them after Steve's attempt at suicide to prevent him from locking his roommate out while doing something irrevocably drastic. “I'll call the super to have them fixed.”

He tugged his gym bag out of the bedroom closet to get ready for ballet lessons and wasn't aware of her presence in the doorway until she spoke. Her voice made him jump.

“Look, I know this is awkward, Rogers, but we have to try to make it work for Clint's sake. I'm not trying to take him away from you. I couldn't even if I wanted. The two of you are like PB and J. You can exist separately, but you're always better together.”

He nodded once.

She waited for a few moments as though she expected some sort of response. When he didn't give her one, her sigh became stiff, and she turned away to leave him alone. There were days he thought he could get along with Bobbi. Then there were days when they felt like oil and water.

Train outages and traffic meant he got to the Lincoln Center later than usual. Classes had already finished up for the day, and it looked like James had showered and was dressed comfortably while sitting against the wall of the studio. Seeing him made Steve's heart flutter.

“Sorry I'm late. Traffic was a nightmare.”

The other man looked up from his phone.

Steve felt a jolt of something branch through his nervous system. A big, ugly bruise mottled the flesh of James' neck and collarbone. The man looked exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep and swollen, bruised toes from the hectic rehearsal schedules.

He sat down across from the man and reached over to gently touch bare toes. “Did you get my text?”

His companion nodded.

“Are you okay?”

Another nod.

“Has he tried to get in touch with you?”

Silence.

“James, has Alex tried getting in contact with you?”

“No.”

“What happened to your neck?”

“Took a nasty fall in class.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Cannot help what you believe or disbelieve.”

“James.” Steve reached over to run his fingers through the man's damp hair.

The other man flinched back.

“Please talk to me. What's going on with you?”

“We need to get through tonight's schedule. Go get changed.”

“James.”

The other man snapped, “I do not want to talk about it. Go change.”

Steve couldn't make him talk, wouldn't even if he could. James had always been so good about not forcing Steve to share his inner life, so he could do nothing but treat his friend with the same privacy and respect. No matter how much he wanted to open up the man's skull and forcefully remove the information so he could do something to make the trauma stop.

Class was like pulling a crocodile's tooth that night. James clearly wasn't feeling well. Steve was worried about the state of the man's feet, and every time they tried a lift, things went catastrophically wrong. They spent more time picking themselves up off the cushioned mats than actually being productive, so he eventually suggested they stop for the night.

They showered and changed back into street clothes, at which point, Steve caught his companion's elbow to keep him from running out of the building. “Could I take you somewhere? I want to show you something special if that's all right.”

The other man seemed hesitant.

“It won't take terribly long. We just have to go down to thirty-fourth street.”

Eventually, his companion acquiesced, and they jumped the subway at the nearest station and headed down to the Herald Square station. He stepped out onto the platform and leaned across a column while James looked at the crowd moving around them. It was well after rush hour by that point, so people weren't packed into the area. The train roared away down the tracks.

James looked confused.

Steve reached up and danced his fingers across a sensor that caused sound to echo through the station and his companion to jump at the unexpected noise. A little smile stretched Steve's lips. Above him was located what looked like a green beam. Every foot or so there existed what looked roughly like a translucent bar attached to the beam, and beneath each was a recessed slot, the green paint beginning to erode after more than a decade of human touch.

Fingers skittered in front of the sensor again. The white bar lit up, and chirping birds emanated.

His companion's expression lit up, so Steve encouraged him to move down the bar activating the sensors. Music filled the station, a bright happy sound that reminded him for the world of old cartoons and a more innocent era before the world had become jaded. 

The two of them worked the instrument in concert until a riotous song spilled throughout the beating, industrial heart of Manhattan. Somewhere between learning what each of the sensors did and combining it to make music, James laughed. The tension eased from his companion's shoulders, who was soon incorporating dance elements to the jolly bells.

It was like walking on clouds, each step and each note bouncing like a piano cord against their nerves until something beautiful emerged from the darkness of their trauma. Laughing, Steve spun a pirouette to reach his next sensor in mirror to James' movements. Next, a series of petit battement, toes pointed and legs fluttering in time with the music.

They were like music boxes dancing to their mechanized chords, and it wasn't until after the last note floated through the station that they collapsed against each other and laughed. It was only until their laughter died that they realized their audience had grown to include most of the subway patrons waiting for the next train. The applause was tremendous. Steve's cheeks heated.

“What is this?” asked James.

“It's called REACH New York. They built it back in ninety five as an art installation.”

“Why do papers not report about it?”

“Because we're New Yorkers, and not even an alien invasion would receive more than a blink.”

The other man stepped closer to lift a blue-gray glance to meet Steve's. When he spoke, his voice was the whisper of snowfall through still air. “Thank you.” A beat of silence. “For this. For being you.”

Later, Steve would swear off complicity with his wayward lips. They acted with a mind of their own. The first shock of contact between them and James' soft pout sent a shiver of awareness down his spine. It was the awareness that insisted Steve's capacity to want wasn't broken, the feeling of an attractive man making his blood warm.

The kiss was chaste. James tasted like strawberry lip gloss and smelled of sharp, grapefruit body wash. His lips were incredibly soft. 

Steve wanted nothing more than to wrap the other man up in his arms so they could hide from whatever the world hurled in their direction, but James eased back. Their gazes met. They searched each other for something, some sign that they were still safe despite taking a step farther than they were really comfortable with.

A moment later, the danseur put a foot or two of distance between them. “I have to go home.”

“Can I walk you?”

“No. I will see you at rehearsals tomorrow.”

He watched the other man disappear into the crowd, staring after those familiar broad shoulders for long beats of a silence punctuated by the growing mass of people waiting for the next train to come in. Fingertips lifted to graze his own lips where moments before, James' lips had been. It had been a mistake, the kind of mistake he couldn't bring himself to regret.


	10. Jeté

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A period of upheaval and change awaits our characters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for domestic violence, abuse, and threats against a cat. No cats are physically injured, though.

It was the last time James would take the lift at the Dylan as a resident. It was the last time he would apply keys to door and step into the familiar entryway intending to stay. It was the last time he would look across the studio to watch the evening lights pour through the panes and paint a kaleidoscope of shadows across the floor. He just didn't know that when he completed the sequence of coming home.

Alex's shadow shifted on the sofa. “Where have you been?”

“There was delay at station.”

“You're late.” The reasonable quality of Alex's voice did nothing to ease the tension. “Ivan was upset.”

A sharp burst of awareness severed his calm facade. Frantic, he called for Ivan but didn't hear the tell-tale jingle of the feline's bell. “What did you do?”

Silence.

“Where is he?” James' voice rose to a shout.

“Does that cat really mean more to you than me?”

“Yes.” Terrified now, he started toward the bathroom.

Alex intercepted him, the other man's weight forcing him backward against the kitchen island where granite jammed into James' tailbone. The other man snarled, “What is this?”

Before he could react, a phone was shoved in his face. It took him a moment to focus on the screen where a youtube video showcased the impromptu concert with Steve from earlier that evening. At the end, a kiss. James went cold. The iceberg wrapped around him in an attempt to insulate him from the pain to come, and he didn't doubt there would be pain.

“I spent the evening with a better man than you,” he intoned.

“Didn't I love you enough? Didn't I take care of you? What did I do to drive you into the arms of another man? A man who spreads awful lies about me? How could you do this?”

For a brief moment, the need to reach out and comfort Alex was so overwhelming he felt his hand move of its own accord. Genuine pain coated the other man's words like grease build-up in a drain, like plaque in an artery. He was sickened by the instinct and jerked his hand back.

“You gave me an STI. That means you were sleeping with people other than Brock and Jazz. You raped a man. We've been done for months, maybe even longer than that.”

“Don't say that. Don't say that!” Alex's fingers wrapped around his throat.

The first inkling of alarm came when breathing became difficult, when the man he had once loved exerted enough pressure to close off his airway. His former lover's eyes were dark with fury, distant with some detached quality that said Alex had the stomach to squeeze until James was nothing but a limp husk on the floor. Then came the panic.

He fumbled through his pocket to find his phone, held it down beside his hip to keep from drawing the man's attention to it and managed pull up the Aspire News App. Just a touch of a button, and messages were sent to his list of contacts, and the app started recording the events inside his apartment. It didn't bring much relief. Alex was going to strangle him long before authorities could arrive. His chest already burned with the need for air.

Kneeing his attacker in the groin was a Hail Mary.

The other man choked and stumbled away.

James dragged in great gulps of air that left him feeling light-headed, but he knew it wouldn't buy him a lot of time, so he scrambled around the island to put distance between them and laid hands on a knife from their cutlery set, a housewarming present from Rivka, who was looking out for him even when she wasn't physically in the building.

That was when he noticed movement inside the oven. A spark of terror burst. He yanked the door down, and Ivan came spilling out. The oven was still cold, clearly hadn't been turned on, but the threat was still there. It turned him icy with fury.

“Really, Alex? You were going to kill my cat in the oven?”

“You broke my heart in the subway.”

“You do not have heart.”

Their impasse ended.

Alex came across the kitchen island.

James scrambled to move out from behind it, but the other man was a second faster and caught his heel, tripping him up, and sending him careening into the corner of the counter top. The impact left him breathless, and he desperately didn't want to have to use the butcher knife clutched in his hand.

Grace deserted him in the face of fighting Alex for what he feared might be his life. Struggling to catch his breath, he failed to dodge and found himself tackled to the floor where he went wild, hips heaving in an effort to throw the other man off his body. Fear as those hands went around his throat again made him freeze up. They squeezed with what felt like crushing force.

That was the difference between them. Alex wasn't afraid of using deadly force. James didn't want to live knowing he'd killed the man he'd once dreamed of marrying, so when he swiped the knife toward his former lover, it wasn't with the intent to kill and therefore glanced of the other man's cheekbone.

Hands loosened just enough for him to scrabble from beneath his attacker, at which point he skittered away on hands and butt in the general direction of the front door. He didn't make it.

His attacker hurled the toaster at him. It struck him hard in the face and left him too stunned to move.

The Hail Mary had amounted to only a few more minutes of life. Alex was on him again. He squeezed. Claustrophobia suffocated him as much as the lack of oxygen getting to his lungs. Black dots danced at the edges of his vision.

The front door opened.

The last thing he wanted was for his twin to stumble inside with Alex so furious. The only thing worse than dying was getting her killed in the process. He gathered whatever strength he had left and bridged his body hard enough to throw Alex to the side, at which point, he scrambled backward. Alex came at him again but was met with the heel of James' foot catching him in the jaw. His attacker slumped.

Moments later, the chill of Rivka's voice frosted the atmosphere.

“Stand up, Alexander. Move against the wall slowly. I am more inclined to shoot you than not. One wrong move is all it would take. The law frowns upon shooting to disable. When you are in fear of your life, you should discharge your weapon to kill. The police have been called and will be here soon. Please, give me a reason to shoot to kill and plead self-defense. Steve? Could you help my brother?”

The other man's bulk came into view. For a moment, he seemed to be torn between doing as asked or tearing into Alex. Like an archangel, he stood in the doorway with hands clenched into fists and chest heaving through some inner turmoil. Finally, Steve shifted focus and fell to his knees beside James.

“You'll regret this,” Alex said in a deadly monotone.

“Did I give you permission to speak, ХУЙ?” Her hand tightened around the grip of her handgun.

James choked something that was unintelligible even to his own ears. He coughed and managed to squeeze out Ivan's name, which prompted Steve to smooth the hair from James' face, but the man dutifully climbed to his feet to find the cat hiding under the bed and coax Ivan into his carrier.

Once he could take a full breath, he ground out, “No, I will not regret this.”

Alex, looking just a little desperate by that point, couldn't stop the fear in his voice when he exclaimed, “But I love you! James, you can't leave me; I love you.”

“You do not,” he snapped. “We do not hit people we love. We do not control people we love. We do not isolate, manipulate, and hurt people we love. You do not love me. You love the idea of me.”

Things blurred after that. The police arrived in a surprisingly timely fashion. Alex was placed under arrest, and James found himself carted to the hospital. Again. The exam turned up nothing unexpected. Bruised ribs, a bruised trachea, various contusions along his throat and face from being choked and hit with a toaster, but the doctor wanted to take x-rays of his torso and back to be safe.

Then the police came to interview him regarding the incident, one officer asking “Do you want to press charges, Mr. Barnes?”

“Yes,” he said, his response immediate. “For domestic assault and rape.”

Steve stiffened.

“He-- I did not freely consent and could not fight him when he wanted me.”

One of the officers looked dubious.

The other nudged his partner and instructed him to just write it down, that the detectives building the case against Mr. Pierce would be responsible for sorting it all out. It was clear they didn't believe him. That they didn't should have surprised him more than it did. After showing them the recorded audio from the encounter in the apartment, they seemed more ready to take his word that something had been very wrong in his relationship. They left him with a copy of the report.

Steve and Rivka remained a constant during the process, refusing to leave even when their duties were discharged. Rivka sat. Steve stood behind his sister's shoulder to watch the coming and going of various healthcare workers. They didn't attempt to speak until there was a lull in the activity as they awaited their turn at the X-ray machine, but by that point, Natalia came bursting into his curtained area and rushed to his bedside.

“Little soldier, what has he done to you?”

“It's fine,” he murmured.

“Fine? There is nothing fine about what he's put you through. I swear, I will end him.” The rest of her curse devolved into Russian, at the end of which, Rivka exchanged a nod with Natalia.

“This will never happen again,” Rivka said.

“It will not,” agreed Natalia. “No one will ever hurt you again.”

Steve spoke up at that point. “Am I the only one who is feeling incredibly intimidated right now?”

“You're not going back to that apartment,” Rivka said. “Default on your lease if you must. You'll come and stay with me until you get back on your feet.”

“Dino and you just moved in together. I will not get on way of your relationship.”

“This is non-negotiable.”

“Revekka--” He stopped himself and took a breath. “I can get a spot at a domestic abuse shelter if you will take Ivan for a while. They do not allow pets.”

Steve interrupted the argument with a wave of his hand. “There's a simpler solution here. Get a restraining order against Alex. Show that to your landlord, and they are obligated by law to let you out of your lease. Move in with me.”

James turned his attention to Steve.

“Clint was married Friday. Bobbi and him need space of their own, and I could use a roommate, someone I trust. I was thinking of moving anyway but was reluctant to move in with a stranger.”

He blinked a few times while allowing that information to settle in past the shock of the evening. “Would it really be that simple?”

Steve lifted his shoulder in a half-shrug. “Simple as you want it to be, pal.”

James wouldn't say that it was necessarily simple, but they went straight from the hospital to the courthouse the following day carrying reports from the police and the hospital containing proof of the domestic violence. The judge still looked uncomfortable granting an order of protection on behalf of a man, but there wasn't really any choice given the evidence.

They went from courthouse to the Dylan with the order of protection. His super was more sympathetic than the judge as it turned out and didn't make him feel like some pariah for being in a homosexual relationship and then being abused. Mounds of paperwork needed filling out, but within the week, his lease was terminated, and he could start packing his life in moving boxes.

Separating the two threads of their lives was the hardest part. Each memento made some part of him question whether Alex and him could somehow work it out. Naturally, his logical mind didn't want to have anything to do with that plan, but turning off emotion wasn't as simple as flicking a light switch. Part of him would always love Alex. That part protested putting the coffee maker they'd bought together—the first thing they'd purchased for their apartment—into the donate box. It whimpered over throwing the little bear holding a soccer ball Alex had given him on their first date away.

It took three days to extricate his belongings from the place and carry them into a moving truck his parents had hired for him. All of it was going into storage until Steve and he could find a place of their own, the whole adventure helped along by Clint, Natalia, Pietro, and strangely enough, Steve's therapist. Sam was an incredibly calming person to be around.

Once everything was moved out, he stood near the door and looked around at the remnants of his life with the man he had once hoped to marry. He watched the play of light over the floor, the golden gleam of the sun pouring through the windows, and felt a stab of something—longing, maybe—for what once was but would never be again.

Rivka touched his shoulder. He reached up to clasp the hand she settled there.

Eventually, he turned away and pulled the door closed behind him for the final time.

The next morning, he scheduled an appointment with his talk therapist, an opinionated Jewish woman who reminded him a great deal of his mother. Mrs. Feigenbaum was sharper than an ax and refused to let him get away with his usual avoidance techniques, something for which he was secretly grateful despite a whole Hell of a lot of tantrum-throwing. During his following appointments, she helped him scrape his insides raw, but the heavy weight of his emotions left him feeling vulnerable in his life outside the therapy office.

So he crawled into the ice of Lyovikha, walling away his emotions behind a mask of detachment. Rivka was kind enough to let him stay on her sofa while apartment hunting with Steve, and he spent the nights huddled with Ivan and refusing to acknowledge that he was at all bothered by the turn of events. Ivan, on the other hand, had no trouble being incredibly clingy, at least with James. If Dino got anywhere near him, the cat had conniption fits until the Italian backed off.

He danced. He slept. He stayed on his dietary plan. He was the model of a big brother with the company. But inside, he was just numb. It showed in his work, or so said Natalia one afternoon as they were finishing up rehearsals for the day.

She caught up with him as they walked across campus from the main performance stage, her hand settling on his elbow. “Your dancing is different, little soldier. Still technically good but without the passion of before.”

He pulled his elbow from her grasp. “Mr. Jarvis has not mentioned being disappointed.”

“Because we all know you've been having a rough time.”

His steps faltered, and he stopped in the middle of the courtyard. “What does that mean?”

“What happened with Alex--”

That was not a conversation he was prepared to have, not then or any time in the future, so he started walking again on determined steps. “There is nothing to talk about.”

“Little soldier, he tried to--”

Stopping, he whipped around to level his fiercest glare on her. “You are not wise companion owl, little spider. It is not your duty to make me...”

“Make you what?”

“Drop it.”

“Yashka...”

He ignored her calling after him and jogged the rest of the way back to their practice studio where he could lose himself in tutoring Steve, Steve who blessedly knew when to keep his mouth shut instead of picking at an old sore that was already scabbed over. Or at least he told himself it was scabbed over.

Ignoring Leo and his crew was easy that day. He grabbed his bag from the locker and disappeared into the studio space to have a protein shake and a cup of mashed sweet potatoes Rivka had made him. The dietician wanted to up his carb intake in the last weeks before their opening night to make sure he had enough stamina to make it through full dress rehearsals and then the opening night performance.

Steve was punctual and didn't need to be told to go change, just walked past the studio and into the locker room only to return several minutes later dressed in his usual tights and thin sweater. The man plopped on the floor to massage his feet and stretch out his muscles.

James watched him for a while. His mind whirled back to that brief kiss in the subway station. The ghost of it still haunted his mouth. He still had mixed emotions about it. On the one hand, the kiss had been extraordinary, a brief touch that had lit up his nervous system with good things. But they weren't supposed to have kissed. Their relationship was supposed to remain platonic. It was the best for both of them that they not mix up their friendship with anything more.

“I have a couple of places for us to look at tomorrow if you have some time,” Steve eventually said.

He nodded. “I have some time in the evening.”

Fingers wrapped around James' ankle. Steve's gaze was equally as warm. “Do you want to talk?”

“No.”

Steve stood, held his hands out until James accepted them, and pulled him to his feet, but instead of dancing, they stood in the middle of the space, hands joined, eyes connecting. 

A bubble popped. Steve smiled. He spent a moment fiddling with his phone until the lively beats of big band music spilled out. Then, looping his arms around James' waist, he started to move.

Pulling away was on the tip of James' consciousness, but the other man looked so startlingly alive, so charming, that he found himself moving as well. They combined swift flicks of their legs with feather-light spins into a swing dance. Feet kicked. The soles of their ballet slippers slid across the smooth hardwood. Steve spun him out and pulled him in, and it was frenetic. It was electric.

Music skittered across his nerve endings. Dance worked at the tense edges of his mood. The first laugh slipped free as his dance partner wobbled his knees in and out and stepped in a lively prance across the hardwood, one large palm still enveloping his own hand.

Laughter felt freeing, exhilarating, and before he knew it, he copied Steve's knee-wobble and turned a pirouette that ended with his companion's hands at his waist. The extra balance allowed him to step up, cradling his foot in the crease of the man's leg where thigh met pelvis in order to stand atop the pyramid, back arched, arms thrown backward where he poised.

Steve, all six feet four inches, then grasped James' pelvic cradle and hoisted him toward the ceiling where he curved his body into an elegant position. Laughter spilled from James. It bubbled like champagne across his tongue.

A breath passed.

His companion lowered him back to the ground only to move right back into the Lindy Hop they'd been messing around with when they'd first started.

By the time the music faded, they were breathless and drenched in sweat, and James leaned himself flush against Steve's body. Their cheeks were hot with exertion, but something sparkled in Steve's eyes. James couldn't remember the last time someone had made him feel so effervescent.

Naturally, that meant he ruined the moment by reaching up to press their mouths together. It was a quick, chaste kiss before he pulled himself away, realizing the wrong message he was sending by instigating that kind of contact. His smile faltered.

“Hey, you didn't do anything wrong, Buck.”

“We should--”

“I know, just be friends. Friends kiss now and then.”

“Do they?”

The rest of their lesson went by in a languid sort of haze. Steve was getting better at stabilizing the holds, and his lines were improving. He didn't need to have his feet corrected as often but still had a bad habit of forgetting to point his toes to extend the line.

No matter. It was a successful lesson, and they showered and both went their separate ways for the evening. James had driven to avoid the crush of the train. The quiet walk from their practice studio to the parking garage was uneventful until he reached his car. Glancing up, his senses sharpened. Someone moved a few cars over. Fear spiked his heart rate.

Some man in a business suit appeared on the opposite side of his car where he'd retrieved something that had previously been dropped, allowing the tension to dissolve and James to finally get into his vehicle. It made him feel weak to allow something so innocuous to rattle him.

It became the focus of his brooding during the drive home, so he was a little perturbed that Rivka and Dino were both home when he got there. He forced his expression to relax into something more neutral before stepping inside and dropping his gym bag near the door where he watched the couple for a moment. Dino with his toned arms wrapped around Rivka's girth. She was in the midst of laughing at something he had said and turned enough for a quick kiss.

Really, he was happy for his twin. Concerned that the media would tear her to shreds but still happy. Also envious. There had been a time when Alex and him had behaved that way, as though the world only existed as it pertained to them. He remembered those good times and wasn't sure he would ever experience that sort of closeness again.

Later that night, he was sprawled on the sofa, Ivan tucked up under his chin and rumbling like a motorboat, when he heard the muted irritation of Dino's voice from the bedroom. Maybe it was impossible for his mind not to go there first thing, but he was immediately afraid for his sister and threw back the covers to creep toward their closed door.

“The goddamn cocksucker. I said him before the interview I wasn't answering questions about--” Dino's strong Italian accent came through along with his anger.

“Dino--”

“No. I'm not feeding into gossip about you. I say my agent to refuse interviews from them.”

Listening to Dino mix up “to say” and “to tell” made him feel a little less self-conscious about his own failings at normal English. He shouldn't be eavesdropping, but if Rivka was being dragged through the mud, he needed to know about it.

“Hush, little pizza.”

James snickered behind his hand.

“Why aren't you more--” Dino paused briefly, no doubt searching for the right word. “Upset?” Another brief pause. “Why aren't you more upset about this?”

“Because I don't care what they say about me or my weight. No one gets to make me feel I'm worth less just because I'm bigger than average. Besides, my weight doesn't actually matter. They would pick apart my flaws if I were six hundred pounds or eighty pounds, if I had a thigh gap or a tit gap.”

“What is--”

“Cleavage, little pizza. If my tits were too small. What I'm saying is that I would never measure up to some arbitrary goal post, because they're always moving the goal post. So it doesn't matter. I love you. You love me. That's all I care about.”

A smile played at James' lips.

“Now come put your pecker between my fat titties and call me your sugar tits.”

The smile turned immediately to horror, and he backpedaled away from the door, and if he spent the next ten minutes trying to scrub his ears clean with Q-tips, no one could really blame him. He slept with the pillow over his head that night to avoid hearing any bumping coming from the bedroom.

***

Professor Stark's voice rose over the clamor in the auditorium. “Shut your cake holes!” The man pressed his knuckles against his temples. “Fucking Hell. Why can't you snot-nosed little troglodytes ever express your opinions without resorting to shouting at the top of your little lungs?” Their professor's words slurred. He elongated his esses and barely stopped for a breath between sentences. “Topic's gun control. Maybe we should invest in mouth control.”

Tony Stark was drunk again or hungover.

Steve bopped the end of his pen against his notebook, aware that Billy, Teddy, Carol, Kamala, and Clint stared at him as though he was the one who should do something about this nightmare-turned-campus-embarrassment. And he would have been fine ignoring them. It wasn't his responsibility. Except Professor Stark stumbled against his lectern and burst into giggles.

“Gun control,” he said again. “Somebody shoulda banned gun control back when my daddy--” The man must have lost his train of thought, as he carried off onto a different tangent. “Dear old Daddy. Always doing what was best for the company, you know. Wait. I said that wrong. Somebody shoulda made gun control back when my daddy got into the business. Gun control is awesome. Go us!”

Cringing, Steve finally jogged down the stairs into the pit to take hold of Professor Stark's elbow when it looked like he would fall over or be sick. “Let me take you back to your office.”

“Oh look. Captain Conscience strikes again. How'd you grow up to get so goody-two-shoes, huh? D'your mama have sex with Uncle Sam? I'm right, aren't I.”

“You really need to step away, Mr. Stark. Let me have your phone so I can text Professor Banner.”

“No.” He laughed for some inexplicable reason and swayed into Steve's bulk. “We're supposed to be disgusting--” Another giggle. “Disgusting. We're supposed to be discussing gun control. Dear old Dad shoulda learned something about gun control. He made weapons, you know.”

“Mr. Stark, please...”

Tony sagged more of his weight into Steve. “Yeah. He made weapons. Then he went and got himself killed in a car accident. Left the business to me.” He giggled again. “Me. Running a business.” Another giggle. “Found out Dad's business partner was selling weapons illegally to terrorist organizations. Right under my nose, too.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” He managed to wrestle Tony's phone from the man's slacks pocket and quickly found his contacts. Bruce was listed as “Hubby-Bubby.” Steve sent a quick text while Tony drooled on his button down.

“Yeah.” The other man wiped drool off his chin. “Yeah. So gun control. Don't want guns getting into the wrong hands. Like me. 'Cause I already killed a bunch of people by not catching onto Obie's double-dealing sooner.” Another bubble of laughter. “Watched a kid's face get melted off during a tour of the Middle East because of my weapons. Go gun control!”

Thankfully, Bruce wasn't far, as he entered the lecture hall within minutes of Steve sending the text. The other man with his wild curls went from scared to heartbroken in the blink of an eye upon assessing the situation and hurried forward to loop an arm around Tony's waist. He offered Steve a quiet “thank you” and informed the students that class was dismissed for the day.

Students broke out of their stunned silence before trickling from the auditorium, leaving only a small group of them behind. They clustered together in the pit.

“I can't believe that just happened,” Carol said.

“What are we gonna to do? Like, are they gonna give us a new professor, or did we just waste a whole semester in a class we'll never get credit for?” asked Kamala.

“I think we'll just have to wait and see,” offered Clint. “But chances are the university'll assign a temporary professor to finish up class. Otherwise they mess up some of our graduation schedules and have to refund us all for the course. Ain't no way NYU's turning loose of money.”

Teddy said, “I agree with Clint.”

For his part, Steve wasn't sure what to feel. Everyone had their breakdowns. It was something he was intimately familiar with given all the recent upheaval in his life. And Tony sounded like he might have reason to run from his demons with the only rocket jet he had: alcohol. Addiction was a disease. You couldn't just snap your fingers and stop drinking.

Finally, he said, “Let's just wait and see. Show up to class as normal on Wednesday and hope they have a substitute professor lined up to take on the course. Let's just all keep Tony in our thoughts and prayers—if you're the type who prays—that he gets the help he obviously needs.”

Which was how Steve ended up inside the small chapel at the Catholic Center on his knees with his rosary in hand. His lips moved with the whisper of divine words. He prayed for Mary's benevolence to bear his prayer to her son, Jesus Christ, for intercession with Mr. Stark's demons. It had been a long time since his prayers had meant anything, since he'd found comfort in the routine. The ritual felt easier that day. He felt like his words may have gotten through the ceiling.

Somehow, he was still on time to meet James at Third Rail Coffee so they could look at the apartments they'd scheduled viewings off. And that was how Steve found out that apartment hunting with James would be more difficult than he'd imagined.

The three apartments Steve had on his list were quickly shot down as too small, too dark, or in a bad neighborhood. They were all apartments Steve felt were well within their budget, simple two bedroom places without any of the usual fanfare or amenities other people took for granted. Which wasn't to say he disagreed with James for refusing the place in Korea Town. Cockroaches scurried for hiding places when they stepped inside with the super.

James' suggestions, on the other hand, were much too opulent for Steve's needs. It became instantly clear his future roommate was used to living a certain lifestyle and preferred better housing over more savings. Which wasn't to say Steve wasn't justified in putting his foot down over the place in Gramercy. Sure, it had beautiful views of the park, but the monthly rent, while they could afford it if they pooled their money, left him shaking in his boots and rethinking their arrangement.

Stress from apartment hunting meant that Friday was a welcome relief. Steve dressed warmly—it was November and the weather proved perfect for the fall day—and managed to coax James into attending the small Pride event at Central Park. Sam met them by the gate and ushered them through the park to the booth set up for Veterans Affairs that was laden with pamphlets and lots of good information.

Sam shook James' hand, thanked him for volunteering for the day, and gave them stacks of pamphlets to hand out along with big, rainbow-colored top hats. Buttons pinned to said hats read _'the VA supports our LGBTQIA soldiers; ask me how.'_ Pamphlets in hand and hats in place, they were sent to wander the various booths and found themselves drawn into the pleasant atmosphere.

Watching James, who had never been to a Pride event before, proved just as entertaining as looking at the various fashion statements on display. The guy was clearly in awe of the whole thing and wound up dragging them to several booths to collect information on a couple of programs looking for professional dancers to teach LGBTQIA youth. He couldn't remember having seen James so open and enthusiastic about something before.

“You know,” Steve began as they strolled amidst the other event goers, “I read an interview once with a man who had endured conversion therapy. Someone asked him why Pride events needed to be so flamboyant. You hear that a lot. 'I wouldn't mind gay people if they weren't so flamboyant about their gayness.' The guy giving the interview put it better than I ever could have.

“He said, 'People who are different live very isolated lives sometimes and our flamboyance is a way of celebrating the fact that we're alive in a society that's constantly trying to erase our existence.' He went on to say 'Kids like me, who endured horrible mistreatment in the name of making us straight, won't have a lot of support coming into our independence. Being flamboyant, celebrating who we are, it's also a way of telling guys and gals like me that there are people in the world like me, that I'm not alone, and that life can be okay if we persevere long enough.' I always liked what that guy had to say.”

His companion was quiet for a few moments. Ultimately, he didn't offer a verbal response. Instead, he hurried across the street to a face-painting booth, paid a few bucks and sat patiently while an artist painted a vibrant peacock across one cheekbone and up onto his temple. Then, squeezing Steve's fingers, he carried on down the path. Steve figured actions always spoke louder than words.

It was while they were getting a couple of hot teas and a packet of cinnamon-crusted almonds that he glanced over to find tears on the other man's cheeks. Immediately concerned, he steered James to a quiet little alcove and offered him a tissue.

“It's fine,” James said. “I am normal. The emotion, it is pleasant, but my brain gets mixed sometimes with how it should respond. Something happened when I was child, I think. Memories have started resurfacing. My psychiatrist diagnosed me recently with Pseudobulbar Affect. It usually exists in comorbidity with traumatic brain injury or neurologic disorder.”

“Will you be okay? I mean-- I have no experience with it. Is it something that will affect you long-term, or is it manageable?”

“It is not degenerative if that's what you ask.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Don't think I've lost my mind when I break into sudden bouts of emotions at inappropriate times?”

“I can do that.”

“Thank you,” James said, “for bringing me today.”

Their knuckles brushed as they moved back to the VA booth to pick up more pamphlets where Sam greeted them with one of his blinding gap-toothed smiles and offers to buy them lunch. The event was a nice interlude in the midst of their changing lives. It was a good way to enjoy being around people without being afraid of standing out like a pink, neon sign in a predominantly heterosexual world.

Time slid by after that Friday as life settled into its routine, daily chores and errands mixed in with various apartment hunting trips. Before Steve knew it, three months had passed. It certainly tested their ability to compromise and live together, but it also forged their bond into something stronger.

During those three months, Steve pulled his hair out preparing the final essay for ethics class in which he covered the clash between societal ethics and individual freedoms. Stark was pulled from his position—the university claimed he took a sabbatical for a family emergency—and replaced by an upstanding member of the university who led discussions rather than provoking contention. 

Funnily enough, he'd gotten so used to Stark's methods that the more organized teaching style left him bored. Maybe he was the only one who felt that way. Billy and Teddy seemed to enjoy the new professor more and both horded their perfect grades over the rest of the class.

Steve may have forgotten all about Tony Stark during the rush of final exams and submitting all his graduation papers had he not run into the man on the street a few days before graduation. Stark looked rough, but there was something more settled behind his eyes. He thanked Steve for stopping that last tirade during class and invited him over for dinner some time at Stark Tower.

Graduation came. Steve stood with the rest of his graduating class to accept his diploma—or rather he accepted the sleeve in which the diploma would go, as diplomas were either mailed or had to be picked up a few weeks later from the art department. He smiled and waved and heard cheers flowing through the auditorium from his cheerleaders, Ma and Clint, James and Rivka, Natalia and Sam.

The following week, he stood up in front of a judge for his trial-- he was represented by an up-and-coming defense lawyer named Jennifer Walters. He apologized for his actions, explained something of why an attempt at saving someone had turned into a lengthy hospital stay, and sincerely regretted not having better control of his temper. The judge took his words to heart and sentenced him to seventy hours community service and anger management classes. It was a better outcome than he'd hoped for.

He chose to do his community service at an inner city organization for troubled youth, taught an arts class there for several weeks. The director of the organization talked him into making it a regular thing. Steve wasn't overburdened doing it. There was something fulfilling about introducing kids to the arts when arts was one of the first programs public schools cut from their budgets.

Running into Bruce Banner at anger management class, however, was something he was completely unprepared for. The man led their group session. Often, they chatted after group let out. Dr. Banner and Tony had been married for five years and were fathers to twins. One of his better days was when Dr. Banner proudly informed him Tony had checked into a rehab facility.

Christmas came and went, and Steve was almost ready to call apartment hunting quits and go crawling back to Bobbi to beg forgiveness for his testy behavior when they arrived at the Octagon one afternoon on Roosevelt Island. It was early February, and winter had a firm grip on New York.

The building was a historical property built in eighteen forty-one that had been substantially renovated and turned into luxury apartments in two thousand six. Hearing “luxury apartments” from their realtor nearly made Steve choke, but she went on to describe how it was a green property designed to be eco friendly, which prevented him from walking right out the door.

They entered into the grand atrium, and he craned his head back to watch the circular staircase soar toward the high ceiling. The place was clean, bright, and filled with windows that allowed natural light to spill inside, but each good point brought with it the sense he would be signing his life away for rent.

Someone from the complex arrived to take them up to tour the available unit. They entered into a foyer with a galley kitchen to the right that was open to the living room. Directly across from them, floor to ceiling windows showed off a view of the East River and beyond, the Manhattan skyline. It had parkay wood floors gleaming golden in the sunlight, and honey-colored granite counter tops. The place felt warm but modern. Sleek but homey, and that view was incredible.

On either side of the living area, they found the bedrooms. The master bedroom had an en suite bath and was slightly larger, but Steve fell in love with the view from the second bedroom, as it looked out along the bank of the river and a copse of bright trees and flowers. He could imagine putting an easel in the corner and sketching or painting during the afternoon.

The unit even had a washer and dryer, which sure as Hell beat lugging his dirty laundry to the basement of the building and hording change just to have clean clothes.

He met James and their realtor in the living room.

“I love it,” James said.

“I love it, too, but I've got a feeling I won't love the price.”

The realtor showed them the monthly rent and dues. They made Steve swallow, but it wasn't as expensive as he'd been envisioning. Some of the places James had selected had been above five grand a month. The Octagon was well below that. James suggested he pay the greater share of rent to have the en suite bathroom. It made sense given he made the greater share of salary as a principal dancer.

They signed on the dotted line the next morning. By the end of the week, they had their things moved in and were throwing a house-warming party attended by their friends. And if Bobbi was a little jealous of the brightness and sleek, modern design, Steve tried to be the better person and not gloat over it. Tried being the operative word.

Champagne bubbles danced in his mouth as he watched his mama interact with James and Rivka. Occasionally, James would look up and catch his gaze. The warmth alight in that man's gaze sent a curl of desire snaking into his groin. It was a desire he fully intended to ignore.

“Are you happy?” Natasha asked beside him.

He turned his glance down to meet hers, and a sudden thought struck him. “You're the firebird feather.”

She made a questioning noise around the rim of her champagne flute.

“A knight finds a firebird feather, and it prompts him to go on a journey to capture the firebird. Bucky—er—James told me. The journey is the reward, he said. You helped him to start the journey.”

An elegant red brow arched. She took a sip of champagne. “It is lovely sentiment, Steven, but if I am feather, then you are firebird. Do you portend doom, Mr. Rogers?”

He made a face. “I don't wear old-man cardigans, and this isn't the neighborhood.”

Her laughter surprised him. “Answer the question. Do you portend doom?”

“Jesus, I hope not.” It slipped out on an exhalation.

“Yashka is my little soldier. You won't like the consequences if you hurt him.”

“You know, I always hated shovel speeches. What level of hurt evokes the implied consequences. Assuming we get together, does that mean we're obligated to stay together for the rest of our natural lives? Because break-ups hurt. What if I forget our anniversary? That causes hurt. What if I come home in a bad mood and snap at him? No one ever says what they mean by invoking the word 'hurt.'

“Don't get me wrong,” he continued, “a good shovel speech can be pretty intimidating, but the chances of the consequences ever being carried out are minimal to start with. Why not just inform your friend's perspective significant other that you are invested in the outcome of the relationship and care enough to be affected when your friend is hurt?”

He was thirty-five percent sure Natalia rolled her eyes next to him. “You just ruined a perfectly divine shovel speech, little lectern.”

A huff escaped. “That's the nickname you choose for me?”

“Yes. It seems appropriate.”

The noted whine in his voice should have emasculated him, but months of therapy with Sam were beginning to chip away at the hyper-masculinity he had thought he needed.

It made her laugh, so he counted it as a win.

Later, someone ordered a truck load of Chinese take out, and they sat together as friends in Steve and James' fresh start. At some point, he wound up sitting beside Bobbi, the woman still dressed in her work uniform of black pantsuit and slicked-back hair. The badge clipped to her lapel gave her clearance for S.H.I.E.L.D: New york.

The only thing he knew about the company was that it served as a political watch-dog group. They'd tasked themselves with finding and cutting out government corruption and had already publicly exposed a number of dirty politicians. The most notable had been a governor with his hands in the pockets of a South American drug cartel.

The woman used chop sticks to take a bite of chicken and noodles.

They ate in silence for a few minutes.

“I think you're going to hurt Clint,” he finally murmured for her ears alone.

“I think you're too dependent on Clint and am glad you're moving out.”

“Please don't hurt him.”

“Sometimes I think you're more invested in our marriage than either of us are.”

“Doesn't that tell you something awful?”

“Still our marriage. Not yours.”

Clint returned from mingling and wiggled his butt until they both moved over in order to insinuate himself between them, a carton of pork clutched in his grubby paws. “Now what's got my best gal and best pal looking so tense at a party? Fighting over me again?”

“Something like that,” Bobbi responded. “You almost ready to go, sweetheart? I have an early meeting in the morning.”

“Actually, I thought I'd hang around here and help clean up after the party. Maybe catch the tram back into Manhattan.” A beat of silence passed. “If that's okay.”

Steve bristled over Clint asking permission of his wife to come home late.

“Seems more efficient for you to take the car home with me, though. Plus, you stomp around the place like you're wearing lead shoes when you come in. You realize my meeting is scheduled for eight AM?”

“Steve, help me out here. The old ball and chain's--”

Bobbi cringed.

“--giving me a curfew already.” 

The tone of Clint's voice suggested the man was teasing, but Bobbi didn't seem to take it that way, her body going rigid, and a flash of hurt disappearing behind a stony expression.

“Hey, your marriage. Leave me out of it,” Steve said. “You're always welcome on the sofa, though, so you don't disturb Bobbi by coming in late.” His helpfulness was met with an icy expression. “Or not.”

Uncomfortable at being placed in the middle of their domestic affairs, Steve extricated himself with the excuse of getting another beer from the stainless steel fridge. They used their outside faces with their inside voices once he was gone, and less than an hour later, Clint said his goodbyes and left with his wife. It made a cold pit open up inside Steve's stomach.

The night wound down after that with people trailing away to head home, leaving the new roommates faced with their first night alone in their apartment. Ivan finally skulked out of James' bedroom to nose around the place but settled as close to James as physically possible without the man staying stationary. 

Steve helped himself to a black garbage bag to go around picking up disposable cups. Part of him wanted to crawl into bed and hibernate after being social, but it was his apartment, too. It was his responsibility to take care of it the way he never had when living with Clint.

They worked in silence together to tidy the place up.

After, each nursing a final beer on the living room sofa, James spanned the distance between them to settle his hand atop Steve's. He said, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Being you.” His roommate drained the rest of his beer and wandered off to bed, Ivan hopping down from his cat tree and scampering behind.

Steve didn't sleep well. First night in a new place with new sounds all around him. He gave up after a while and spent his time sketching, moonlight and lights from the city pouring in through his window. The sketch that took shape was James. Same as the sketch on the page before. Same that would be on the page after. The man was mid-lunge, leg stretched toward the ceiling, arms stretched like the wings of a dove. He'd captured the man's face in an expression of bliss.

As James shuffled from his bedroom the next morning, hair mussed and upper body bare, naked feet padding across the hardwood, Steve was struck with how deep he was. He was falling hard and couldn't seem to stop the headlong spiral toward his doom.


	11. Kalkabrino

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dress rehearsals go well, and James and Steve go on a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Panic attack. Self-medication with alcohol. There are more details of the event in the ending notes for those who need to be cautious.
> 
> You're welcome for the second half of this chapter. I'm gonna be over in the corner giggling while Etta James croons "At Last."
> 
> [Ballet Terminology](http://www.abt.org/education/dictionary/)

Nervous energy made his knee bob while waiting to be called back to identify Mortimer Toynbee, some legal hoop Jasper Sitwell, who was representing his attackers, had set up for him to jump through. Personally, he thought Sitwell just wanted to torment him for daring to come forward to name his attackers. It was another barrier designed to make him think twice about going forward with pressing charges. The coffee in his cup sloshed dangerously toward the rim, so he forced himself to still long enough to take a sip. Hot coffee scalded his tongue.

Finally, Detective Jones came to retrieve him and took him back to the room they'd prepared the line-up in. It was a one-way mirror. He could see the selection of people, but they weren't able to see him. Even knowing that didn't help much. Mortimer Toynbee. As bad as Alex and Victor had been, Mortimer had been worse. The others had taken pleasure in the act. Mortimer had taken pleasure in degrading him, physically and emotionally.

He nodded to Detective Jones to let her know he was ready, and a line of men filed into the room before turning and facing the mirror. He took his time in searching each man's face before moving on to the next. They were a collection of men with varying features, all dark haired and pale to one degree or another, but it wasn't until he reached the second to last that his stomach revolted.

Sickness turned his stomach into a bubbling cauldron, and he had to look away. Had to look anywhere but at that man's sickly skin tone and weak chin. A warm palm, his mama, smoothed across his back. Another breath eased some of the nausea but did nothing to dry the clammy sweat.

He glanced back. Could feel his skin crawling again. Could feel the phantom sensation of hot urine on his face. In his mouth. The invasion of his attacker's body rearranging his tongue and teeth when it pushed inside.

Steve turned away and made it to a waste can before throwing up. In between heaves, he managed to scratch out “Number seven.”

Several other people were in the room with him: the assistant district attorney, Foggy Nelson, defense attorney Jasper Sitwell, his mother, and Detective Jones. Mr. Sitwell insisted they wait to record the identification until Steve had recovered enough to be positive of his ID. It required him to look again.

He went back through the line-up just to be certain, just to make sure he couldn't have wrongly identified someone completely unrelated to the case, but his gaze went right back to Toynbee. That bubbling nastiness in the pit of his stomach returned. He heard the man's sickeningly sweet voice still chortling, 'Take that dick, you little cock-slut.'

Somehow, he kept the dry-heaves at bay the second time and reiterated, “Number seven.”

“You're positive?” asked Jones.

“Yes. A thousand percent.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rogers. You can take him outside now, Chief Rogers.”

Ma led him from the room and straight to one of the interrogation rooms where it was private and cool. He flopped into a chair, and she cradled his head against her stomach. Soft humming filled the space. Her hand stroked over his hair.

“That was very brave, darling boy. You're so brave, Stevie.”

“Why does it still hurt so much?”

“Darling, there's no time table on overcoming trauma. Maybe it takes some people a few weeks to feel secure again. Maybe some people never feel safe.”

“I can't-- If I have to feel like this the rest of my life...” He allowed the rest to trail off.

“You won't. You should see how much you've already improved. I know it's hard to see when you're close to the epicenter, but it's true. The rest of us can see it. Just hold on. Hold on as tight as you can.”

His arms crept around her waist to squeeze his mother. She felt so small in his arms, so unlike when he was a child and Sarah Rogers was the biggest person in his life. It was another reminder that some of the biggest things came in the smallest packages. He was so not telling Clint he made a Lord of the Rings reference in the midst of an emotional breakdown.

“I'm gonna take a piss, Ma.” He got up to see to it, and when he returned, his ma was looking at him with concern. “What?”

“You've been peeing like crazy today, Son. Have you checked your blood sugar?”

“I did a few days ago.”

The disappointment in her expression was clear. “Did you take any insulin this morning?”

Shame bowed his head. He shook it in the negative.

“Oh baby. I'm gonna take you home later and see to it you take it. Sweetheart, if I could carry this for you, I would. In a heartbeat.” Her arms went around him to urge his head onto her shoulder.

After a few moments, the door clicked open. He extricated himself and glanced up to find Detectives Jones and Cage stepping inside. He straightened his posture and gratefully accepted the fresh cup of coffee Luke offered to wash the taste of vomit from his mouth.

Mr. Nelson sat across from him. “Matt expresses his regrets that he can't personally be here today. Sometimes I think that man spends his night being some kind of street level vigilante.” Foggy's chuckle sounded a touch nervous. “Okay. Down to business. You did good today, Mr. Ro--”

“Please call me Steve.”

“We're trying to get you a quick trial date. This sort of thing, I imagine, can wear on a person. You can't really move on until justice has been served. Your attackers will be tried separately, though. Clearly, Mr. Pierce was the ringleader, and it's important we make those charges stand on their own to serve as a message for men like him. Our sports stars can't keep getting away with these vicious acts.”

Any belief society would hold sports stars accountable for their actions had fizzled into nothingness after making the mistake of reading an article on a campus-produced website. The “journalist” had expressed sincere regret that one mistake could ruin the rest of Pierce's life. And that had been one of the better reports. Others dismissed Steve as a drug-addicted slut who was crying foul for attention.

Knowing those sentiments were going to happen and facing the reality of it were two very different things, something Sam had warned him about. If only he'd continued listening to Sam's advice to stay unplugged from social media. He couldn't even look at promotional material for the upcoming show without stumbling into the controversy. As a result, he wanted nothing more than to crawl under a rock and hide for the rest of his miserable existence. Then he would think about people like Chase, whose parents were strict Baptists and were failing to give him the support he needed and would realize that he was in the best position to take the heat.

“Mr.-- Steve?”

He jerked his head up from the table. “Huh? Sorry. My doctor upped my dose of anti-anxiety meds, and I've been feeling spacy since. What were you saying?”

“Matt. Mr. Murdock, thinks it will be beneficial to the case if you were to take the stand.”

His immediate response would have been “Hell no.” He glanced up at his mother, who offered a supportive look and a warm hand on his shoulder. He thought about Chase again and tried to swallow down the bile stuck in his throat.

Finally, he replied, “If he thinks it'll help.”

“We'll need you to come into our office several times to prepare your testimony and get you ready for being cross-examined by Mr. Sitwell. You should know that Sitwell is a snake. Like a slimy, slithering snake covered in fish oil. If he thinks it will help him win, he'll worm his way into every weakness you present him. He's going to dig into your past. You have to prepare for the eventuality that you'll be put on trial as much as your alleged attackers will be.”

“I know.” His voice was small.

“So now would be a good time to tell me anything you think I should know so we can be prepared to defend you against any allegations Sitwell may find. What are you drinking habits like? Have you ever done drugs? How many sexual partners have you had?”

The questions bled into a string of gibberish. His rate of breathing increased. He saw red. Finally, his hand slammed down on the table top. “None of that should matter! I'm the victim here. I was the one whose face was smeared through garbage juice while they stuffed their meat in me. I couldn't even fucking say no, because I couldn't think around the drugs fucking with my mind. It's not-- It's not-- God, I have to get out of here. I have to leave. I have to--”

Ma touched him. She breathed softly against his neck after pulling him into her embrace. “Breathe, darling. In for three. Out for three. Just like that.” A moment of silence passed before she spoke again. “That's enough for today. Detectives, Mr. Nelson. Thank you for your time.”

“Of course. Could you see to it that Mr. Barnes gets my card?” He pushed a business card across the table. “Mr. Murdock is going forward with charges on Mr. Barnes' behalf. It's important he call us.”

Steve only had a vague recollection of being ushered into the quiet car of the train and then the tram leading from Manhattan onto Roosevelt Island. Mama ushered him inside, helped him change into something more comfortable, and called into his office for him to take a sick day. Neena sounded sympathetic over the speaker phone and reassured him his job wouldn't be in jeopardy.

She stayed for the afternoon and volunteered to spend the night on the sofa so he wouldn't be alone, but Steve was only interested in sleep and assured her he would call if he needed anything. She still insisted on watching him dose himself with his insulin, and after, it was with great reluctance that she left him there to nap, assured only by James texting to say he would be home in an hour.

His mother wasn't aware of the amount of damage he could do in an hour, though. Once she was gone, he became desperate to feel something other than the nastiness sitting heavy in his stomach. Desperate enough to raid the leftover booze from the party. The liquor went down hard. It settled like a brick in his stomach. But it also worked. He wasn't thinking anything by the time James came home.

His roommate found him on the sofa, sitting alone in the dark and looking out their front window to the boat traffic moving along the East River.

“Ivan doesn't like me. He ran and hid when I got home.”

“Tends to happen when an asshole puts him in a cooking oven. I hear you had bad day.” The other man dropped onto the sofa next to him.

Steve giggled. “Yeah.”

“You're drunk.”

“Yep.”

A moment of silence passed before James spoke. “Are you only drunk? Clint said--”

“Clint needs to mind his own bus-- His own--” He giggled again. “Beeswax.”

“Do I need to call an ambulance and have your stomach pumped?”

He huffed something that made sense to his own ears but came out unintelligibly.

“Steve.” James' voice sharpened.

“Stop shouting.”

Warm hands clasped his face to lift his head from his chest. “If you don't answer me in thirty seconds, I'm calling an ambulance. Did you take anything?”

“Nope.” He giggled. “Just liquor this time.”

“Then I'm calling Sam.”

“No!”

In his haste to stop James from grabbing his cell phone, he clipped the other man's cheek with a flailing hand. His roommate moved with the speed of a viper, flinching away from him and scrambling to his feet with all the grace his dancer's body could achieve. An electric charge crackled between them.

A few heartbeats later, Steve realized what had happened and burst into tears. “Bucky.” There was no controlling the wail of his voice. “God, I'm sorry. 'M so sorry. I didn't mean... Fuck. Hit me back. I can take it.” He presented his face to James, who recoiled like he'd been struck again.

“That is not how this works,” the dancer hissed. “Don't ever, ever ask me to hit you, and I will not be party to you self-medicating with alcohol. This, this is why we would not work as couple. You should not be drinking on your medications.”

Getting slapped in the face would have been worse, but he was barely processing the situation through the haze of alcohol. He sniffled. “'M gonna... to my room.” 

Somewhere between climbing to his feet and shuffling from the living room, his stomach revolted against the alcohol in his system. He suddenly surged into his bathroom, and it was entirely miraculous that he made it in time to heave the contents of his sodden stomach into the toilet. It came up with a hellacious burn, thick strings of mucous dripping from his nose, his face red with the exertion of vomiting. The worst was not knowing if he wanted to vomit or cry, so he wound up doing both and choking on stomach acid.

“I know,” he wailed. “'M dog shit. 'M stupid 'n stubborn 'n angry all the time. You don't want me 'cause who could want me after they-- after they-- they raped me.”

He slumped, forehead braced against the cool porcelain of the toilet that reeked of his own mess. Harsh sobs cut his throat like razor blades when he broke, when he finally, finally broke. A tidal wave of emotion poured through the shattered dam.

Then came a soft voice. A warm hand. A cool glass of water against his lips. A warm washcloth over his eyes, on his face, wiping away the mess of snot, vomit, and tears. Russian words soothing over frayed nerve endings and brain synapses. The lullaby came out in James' dulcet tones, and then, the sensation of being pulled into the other man's arms.

Emotions came pouring out, and fuck, he was sick of crying because of three strangers who'd wanted to feel powerful. Sometimes, he didn't think the tears would ever end. How could they? Each day brought some fresh regret or sharpened a piece of memory he'd thought lost. Like how Alex had laughed right next to his ear in a breathy sort of way and called him “sweet boy.”

They sat on the bathroom floor for a space of time Steve couldn't count. He was held and allowed himself to be held, and wept into the chest of the man he was falling in love with. Mostly, he grieved. He finally grieved for his lost innocence and that sense security that allowed people to own their environment without looking around for oncoming attack. And yet, the world didn't collapse around him the way he'd been afraid it would. James held it together bit by bit. Sam held it together. Clint held it together. His ma held it together. He could grieve and still be okay.

Eventually, he cried himself out. Then he just felt empty, a clean chalkboard awaiting instructions to be etched across his surface. That was when the horror of what he'd done really sank in. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry. 'M sorry. Sorry. James. Bucky. I'm sorry.” Because he'd practically mauled a man whose partner had abused and raped him.

“Alex hurt you, too. He--” He tried to find the right words. “He didn't give you a choice.”

“He did not.” The response was breathy. “If I did not keep him happy, he would have hurt me worse.”

“Bucky.” The man's nickname came out with a whine. “I'm so sorry. For tonight. For everything.”

“You are not him.”

“Don't make excuses for me.”

“Fine. But you are forgiven. It as a drunken accident.”

Steve whined again.

James kissed his forehead. “Hush, little mountain. Even mountains erode from the wind and rain.”

Steve turned enough so he could look up at James without moving his face from the man's chest. A little smile played at his mouth. “That was kind of cheesy.”

His roommate shrugged. “Who doesn't like a little cheese with their wine?”

It dragged out a chuckle. “Also cheesy.”

Shadows lurked behind his companion's eyes, whose expression turned serious again. “It's not true. What you said about not being desirable because of what Alex and the others did. Steve.” Elegant fingers brushed across Steve's face, traced the outline of his jaw, a thumb settling on his chin while James' other arm cradled him close. “Stevie, I want you, but I'm afraid.”

“You're afraid if we do this wrong we could end up hurting each other?”

“Yes. I think we could... Say me how it's normal. Ugh.” James covered his face with his free hand.

“Buck, you're doing fine. Slow down and figure out your words.”

James stuck his tongue out like a mature thirty-year-old. “We could be special together, but not if our carry on luggage weighs more than we do.”

Silence stretched between them for long moments until Steve finally needed to break the tension in the atmosphere. “Netflix and chill?”

“Да. I will order something for dinner.”

They spent the night stretched out on the sofa, each at one end with their feet meeting in the middle where they ate grilled chicken and salad from a fresh market restaurant James favored. And if they wound up falling asleep there and waking up the next morning practically tangled together, neither were going to mention it to anyone else.

***

Thoughts of Steve breaking down on the bathroom floor haunted James throughout the next week, and he found himself slowly coming out of the apathetic haze of the violent conclusion to his relationship with Alex. He didn't know if maybe his heart was finally giving up Alex's ghost or if time was giving him a clearer remembrance of the subtle things his former partner had done to abuse him.

Whatever the case, he'd just about reached the end of his rope when he stepped out of a restroom stall to find Leo and his crew hunched over a sink doing lines of coke again. Something stopped him from passing them by. That something was angry and bubbled beneath the surface of the iceberg.

He strode over to the group and swept his arm across the neat lines they'd cut against the sink, scattering the paraphernalia and showering particles of cocaine like a winter snowfall.

He spoke in clipped Russian. “Arkady almost died on stage from this poison. Is it worth it?” Sharp eyes pierced Leonid. “Will it be worth your career? Your life?”

“You have no right.”

“Do I not?” His bulk backed Leo against a tiled wall, expression hard and shoulders tense. “If I catch you dancing high again, I will inform Mrs. Jarvis. Drugs are not acceptable in this company, and if you are half a man, you will find help to break the addiction.”

The storm went with him when he exited into the hall, keenly aware that Pietro, something proud lurking in his expression, watched from across the room. It wasn't enough to ease the tightness of his chest, though. He'd carried so much anger for so long that one outburst wouldn't crack the iceberg. 

Desperate to escape his fellow dancers, he took the stairs two at a time to the roof. Sleet struck his skin like needles when he emerged. That he wore only his dance tights and a thin shirt did nothing to drive him back into the warmth. He was from Lyovikha, after all. The cold was part of him the same way blood, DNA, and chromosomes were part of him.

He paced. He rolled his toes onto their knuckles to loosen them. He slapped his phone down and pulled up his dance mix and took first position. Voices spilled from the device, snaking beneath the low moan of a mournful bagpipe. His body moved like a serpent to the ebb and sway of the chanting, arms extended for balance, leg moving into a circular pattern, a rond de jambe à terre. Then, his arms moved into the gateway, rounded in front of his body, and then into graceful port de bras movements.

The mournful sound broke. Heavy violins and drums joined the bagpipe. Voices cut the music like knives, and James danced. Quicksilver pirouette piquée. A leap, legs extended, fingers skimming the leaden sky. He wasn't a serpent. He was a bullet. He was a scalpel cutting the atmosphere, slashing and hacking until the sleet ran red with the patient's blood, with his blood as he cut into his raw, aching heart in the hopes of offering it up to Lyovikah. A sacrifice to the ice.

Violence ripped muscles beneath his skin into a corkscrew, a tour en l'air of such incredible height he could touch the clouds. Then, feather-soft, he returned to the rooftop. A royale, legs snipping like scissors. Then, a grand jeté. His body settled again, and he whipped into another pirouette.

It was powerful. His movements were powerful. The anger inside him was powerful, and he let go. He screamed from inside his frigid core. His fists slammed against the ice until something cracked, until chunks of ice scattered across the roof, until he became a phoenix curled warm and safe inside its eggshell awaiting the moment of birth. A woman screamed in the song, one final, shredding note at the music's conclusion to which James went to his knees and spread his arms wide to accept the sleet.

He stood. Steam rose from his body. His breath billowed in the frigid air around him. His ribs pumped like bellows to bring breath back to his body.

Someone clapped. 

James jerked his head around to see Natalia standing by the door. One of the cameramen who'd been following him around stood just beside her, having filmed the whole thing. The fact that someone had filmed it, that they had felt entitled, closed around his throat. Laughter bubbled in its wake.

“You cannot use that. That was not for you. It was not for other people.” Teeth ground against teeth. He couldn't stop the tears accompanying the laughter “It was not for public consumption. Erase it.”

The cameraman held his hand aloft like a white flag and backed quickly away, and Natalia was there to intercept James, delicate hands bracing against his broad chest.

“Yasha. Yashka. Don't you know how beautiful you are?”

“That was mine. It was me for.” He cursed in Russian. “It was for me.”

She waved the cameraman away. “Fine. Fine. We will ensure he erases it, but will you let me keep a copy so the next time you feel trapped, I can show you how free you actually are? Please, little soldier. Just one copy. For yourself.”

Long moments slashed by, a butcher's knife slicing hide from meat. Finally, he nodded. Once. A clipped motion.

“Get your phone and come in from the cold.”

He did as asked and didn't realize how positively frozen he was until they were enveloped by the building's warmth. Steam continued drifting from his head and shoulders. He braced himself against a wall and pressed his forehead there while her hand soothed across his shoulders.

“Yashka...”

He cut her off. “He didn't know how to love me. He only knew how to use me. The whole time.”

“That's his shortcoming.”

“Still a thing I must learn to live with.”

“Yes.” She kissed the point of his shoulder. “But you will. You are from Lyovikha. They are made of ice and steel and iron in Lyovikha.”

A single nod served as his response.

“Go and put on your costume. Everyone else is gathering on the performance stage.”

He did, exiting the locker room dressed in his show costume and feeling a little warmer for it. James stepped onto the stage. The grand, creamy curtains were raised, allowing him to look out at the seats, at the tiers upon tiers of boxes awaiting eager show-goers. 

At the front of the house, banners depicted James in costume, glaring out at the arriving patrons from behind a black mask covering the bottom half of his face, one arm of his shirt silver and designed to look like a robotic limb, the rest black. The banners declared him “The Winter Soldier.” Others showed Natalia in her black finery, a wide belt around her waist decorated with a red hourglass. Hers named her “The Black Widow.” Beside them was Steve standing rigid and solemn as “The Mountain.”

Steve's arrival on stage distracted him. He pulled his glance over to witness his roommate approach wearing slate gray tights and nothing else. The man's chest was bare, and it was the sort of chest that could make even straight men double-take, and James was hardly straight.

Natalia helpfully wiped his chin for him.

Between that and Mr. Jarvis arriving, he was able to tear his attention away from the Adonis who had deigned to walk in their midst.

Mr. Jarvis said, “Today is a full dress rehearsal. Our opening night approaches. Media has already released to the public, and ticket sales are tracking well. We'll be expecting a full crowd on opening night, so this is our last chance to fix any mistakes.”

Mrs. Jarvis took over. “We're running through the program from start to finish, so I expect everyone to hit their marks on schedule. If you get something wrong, keep going. We'll correct it in our early class tomorrow. If you're confused about your cues, see our choreography masters.”

The stage cleared, leaving James standing in the spotlight, head down, body relaxed, long hair serving as a curtain to hide from the world. The music started. With it, his body became a vessel for the Winter Soldier's torment.

They were a good company. They worked well together, an oiled machine calibrated to act with precision, so any little bobbles were quickly covered up by the others, but he was always looking forward. If there was one weakness, it would come during his pas de deux with Steve.

Until that moment, he danced through the scenes. He wooed Natalia. They fell in love. Their second pas de deux showed him training her to defend herself against the villains should they come to collect her themselves. Then, he refused to bring her before his judges. They tortured him, sought to break him, but he fought back. And finally, he stood upon the mountain and fell.

James crumbled. He broke apart in the ravine as Steve rose from a platform through the center of the stage until the other man towered over him. James felt the man's eyes on him. He placed one hand against Steve's thigh and started pulling himself from the ground until they were face to face, blue glaring into blue, chests flush. His breathing was buffered by the mask.

They fought. He resisted the mountain. The mountain refused to let him crumble. Their bodies worked in concert to form jagged lines and edgy lifts. There was beauty in the aggression of their dancing. Steve threw him across the stage, and he landed softly. He rose again and charged the mountain. It refused to move, instead catching James around the middle and lifting him via his pelvis toward the ceiling where he soared.

Steve's eyes were intense when James returned to the floor. The focus of the dance shifted. They no longer fought. He submitted to the will of the mountain and allowed it to lift him, loose-limbed, straight toward the ceiling. His feet whispered across the stage when he was settled back down.

Steve placed both hands on his waist. James threw his in the air and pirouetted while Steve helped him turn, kept him balanced while he turned and turned and turned. They stilled again, at which point, James sagged in the mountain's embrace, one with it. At peace.

When they both came to a stop, the mountain tenderly, lovingly, unsnapped the stays of the mask and allowed it to drop to the stage floor. James looked out at the audience again from behind steely eyes. The mountain was a solid weight behind him.

The curtain came down.

Emotion bubbled inside the space where the iceberg waited, fractured but intact, and James didn't realize at first that the giggle surrounding him actually originated from him. He sagged, and Steve was good enough to catch him. Good thing, otherwise he would have fallen to the floor. His laughter proved infectious, as other people soon joined him, the emotional catharsis of seeing months of hard work pull together into some semblance of a ballet.

He turned in Steve's arms. Their gazes met, but their own private bubble popped as others hurried closer to congratulate them on a successful routine. There was Natalia and Mrs. Jarvis. Even Mr. Jarvis approached to compliment them on a job well done.

“Celebratory dinner?” Steve asked. “My treat this time.”

“As long as you aren't taking me to a greasy spoon. I can't eat diner food right now.”

“No, I remember.”

He paused for a breath. “You were incredible, little mountain.”

“Let's just hope I can do the same on opening night.”

“You will. I have faith in you.”

“That makes one of us.”

Steve held true to his word. He didn't take them to a diner. After going home to change into something more acceptable for polite society (a pair of slacks, a button down, and a vest for Steve and a gray, aline sweater dress and thigh-high black boots for James), they took the train out to Freeman's Alley. An unmarked door, cornflower blue and surrounded by hedges, awaited them. Inside, they found a restaurant done up like an old hunting lodge complete with trophy heads.

A host escorted them to a small table where they shared artichoke dip and crispy bread. James ordered the roasted vegetable and barley pilaf. Steve had the andouille sausage and white bean stew. After, they shared a bananas foster dessert and a pot of coffee.

The food was incredible but the company more so. Talking to Steve was as easy as breathing. The man made him feel like he could say anything, admit to anything without being judged poorly, and he found himself doing just that. He told Steve about the flashbacks he'd been having and the difficulties of spending his formative years in an old mining outpost.

Steve, for his part, spoke about struggling with his self-image after being raped. Their conversation was quiet, and every now and then, one or the other would bridge the distance to touch a hand or a forearm, once to cup the side of Steve's neck and the over-long blonde hair resting against his skin. Those casual touches seemed a natural progression to their relationship.

It happened when Steve scooped up the rest of the bananas and ice cream. He cupped a broad palm beneath the spoon to prevent anything from dripping on the table, but instead of his own mouth, he offered the delectable treat to James' mouth. That moment, James felt a bolt of desire skitter beneath his navel, and as he wrapped his lips around the morsel, he realized that he was in a lot of trouble.

He wasn't supposed to feel the way he felt about Steve Rogers. He wasn't supposed to want him the way he did, especially not so soon after ending his relationship with Alex, but hadn't they survived? Hadn't they just come through upheaval that could have ruined them? But it hadn't. It hadn't ruined them. They had worked through the problem the way a healthy couple would have. Did that mean they were ready? Did it mean they could try?

Steve must have also felt the sudden electric spark. The blue of his eyes darkened, and he licked his lips before catching the bottom one between his teeth. It slipped free, moist in the dim environment, in the soft twinkle of muted lighting.

“Can I kiss you?” James breathed.

“God yes.”

Their lips meeting was a shock, two positive charges repelling each other. They sat back, breathless, only to kiss again, mouth against mouth, lips against lips, molding, fusing, figuring out how to exist in the same space without resulting in nuclear fission.

A soft sound escaped him. He cupped the side of Steve's neck again as they separated just far enough to breathe in each other's exhalations. Thin filaments of want tethered them together.

“Steve.”

“Bucky. Feel my heart.”

Long, beautiful fingers ensnared his own to pull his hand against Steve's chest where he could feel its strong beating, steady if a little fast. 

“Kiss me again,” he breathed.

Steve did. The barest hint of the other man's tongue against his bottom lip made James open to receive the gentle touch against his own. He couldn't hold back another sound of encouragement.

A raspy sound escaped Steve, and he said, “I like my body when it is with your body. It's so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more. I like your body. I like what it does. I like its hows. I like to feel the spine of your body and its bones, and the trembling-firm-smoothness and which I will again and again and again kiss. I like kissing this and that of you. I like slowly stroking the shocking fuzz of your electric fur and what-is-it comes over parting flesh and eyes big love-crumbs. And possibly, I like the thrill of under me you so quite new.”

James shivered as the words of the poem skittered up his nerve endings.

“I want you so much it hurts,” Steve said, “but maybe kissing is enough for now.”

“Of course. Anything you need, little mountain.”

“I want to try. Please, can we try?”

“Will it make you happy?”

“Yes. Yes, please.”

“We have to promise each other. Promise me you will not allow your hurts to come between us, and I will promise the same. We will talk. If ever we are angry or mistaking each other for what has happened in the past, we will talk about it.”

“Always.”

James' grip on Steve's chin hardened. “Look at me. I have to know you are serious. The last thing I could ever want is to hurt you or for you to hurt me.”

Steve opened his eyes and focused on James. “I don't want to hurt you either.”

“Then we will go slow and continue getting help to feel whole inside. That is only way we do this. You are to continue seeing your therapist. I will continue seeing mine to help me understand what Alex put me through. Safe, Steve. We must be safe.”

James felt like he walked on air all the way home. They took the train and then the tram across to Roosevelt Island, and he keyed inside their apartment, one hand on Steve's elbow to maintain some sort of contact between them. Ivan didn't come to greet him. A flash of panic raced through him, and he scrambled into his bedroom while calling the cat's name only to find his feline friend curled up in the basket of clean clothes he'd refused to fold yesterday.

“'S everything okay?” Steve called.

“Yes.” He braced one hand against the basket and stroked Ivan's back. “Do you need your sweater, little man? You look like you could use a sweater.” 

Sitting on the bed, he helped Ivan into a gray, cable knit sweater with a high collar before taking off his own boots and padding back into the main living space with Ivan tucked under his chin. He wasn't prepared for Steve snapping a photo of them.

“That is easily the cutest thing I've seen all week. Think he'll ever warm up to me?”

“We can lock him out of the room when we are naked for sex. I would not want him sinking claws into your most vulnerable parts.”

The comment startled a laugh from his companion, who curled up on the sofa wearing pajamas. Eventually, James fixed them each a cup of hot tea and settled in beside his companion, his weight resting along Steve's arm. Steve leaned forward now and then to pick up his giant cup for a sip, gaze fixed on the episode of Penny Dreadful playing on the television. At some point, James' fingers laced between Steve's.

Ivan didn't magically pick up on the change in their relationship and curl up between them. Nothing so dramatic as that. But the cat sat with them, purring like a motor boat, and didn't run to hide. It was as much a victory as anything else.

***  
James startled awake a few mornings later to the sound of his cell phone. Out in the kitchen, he heard evidence of Steve shuffling around, probably back from his morning run with Sam. He never asked about their sessions but was fairly sure their running dates involved therapy. Steve had once mentioned hating those days when Sam couldn't meet at the park and made him come into his office instead.

Another chime jingled his groggy nerves, so he checked the screen. Natalia. He flailed and grumbled for Ivan to get off the pillows before answering. “It's one of our days off, Natashenka. Why are you calling me at--” He searched the room for his clock before continuing, “--seven thirty in the morning?”

“I need a friendly voice.” Her own voice sounded wet and thick.

He sat straight up. “What's wrong? Do you need me to come to your place?”

A snuffle came through the connection. “Father, he is not well.”

He cursed while scrambling to sit up and wipe sleep from his eyes. “Is he still in Russia?”

“Yes. I must-- Yashka, I must go to Russia to see him once more. The doctors say it won't be long, that I should come now before the cancer finishes it work.”

“We'll talk to the Jarivses. They'll understand. Your understudy can step in for the rest of rehearsals, and if you can't be here for opening night--”

“I will be here opening night. My father and I aren't-- We have never been close, but I want one last chance to be close to him. I'm going to Russia for a week to settle his affairs and see him, but I don't want to go alone.”

He realized immediately what she wanted. “Да. Yes. They won't be happy losing two of their leads for a week, but rehearsals are going well. Let me call them, see if it can be arranged.”

“Thank you, little soldier. I--” She choked on a wet sound. “He took me when no one else would.”

“Please, don't thank me. I do not want thanks for doing what any friend should.”

They talked for a little while longer, enough for him to lift Natalia's spirits and to make better plans and find flight arrangements. After the call, he spoke to Mrs. Jarvis, who readily agreed that they should take the time necessary to handle Mr. Petrovitch's final arrangements. Other ballet masters might have balked at its two principals leaving at such a late stage, so he counted himself lucky to be working with a company who understand that their dancers had lives and emergencies.

Somehow, Steve came into the equation, too. James would swear he didn't know how it happened that his roommate was volunteered to accompany them to Russia, but secretly, he knew it had something to do with a last minute trip to Lyovikha. They would spend three days in Moscow. Steve and him would then take a flight to Lyovikha to spend a day there before returning to Moscow to rejoin Natalia for the final flight home to New York.

When they were all on the plane, first class seats thanks to Ivan Petrovitch's estate, he sat forward with an epiphany. Batya had suggested (he had a feeling Rivka had been telling them about his flashbacks) the trip home after finding out about James going back to visit Russia. Mamochka had insisted Steve accompany him since Rivka was in the midst of a semester and couldn't get away. So it was his parents' fault that poor Steve had to take a week off work and uproot himself to go to Russia. 

Feeling a little pleased that he didn't need to take the blame, he snuggled back into his seat and looked over at the man sitting next to him. He settled a hand atop Steve's, who offered a smile without looking up from browsing the selection of novels on his Nook.

“Read to me,” James said.

Steve cleared his throat, wrapped an arm around James' shoulder, and read, “'This is written from memory, unfortunately. If I could have brought with me the material I so carefully prepared, this would be a very different story. Whole books full of notes, carefully copied records, firsthand descriptions, and the pictures—that's the worst loss. We had some birds-eyes of the cities and parks; a lot of lovely views of streets, of buildings, outside and in, and some of those gorgeous gardens, and, most important of all, of the women themselves.'”

By the time they arrived in Moscow, Steve had gotten through most of Herland and was flanked on either side by James and Natalia, who rested their heads on his shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Jasper Sitwell arranges for Steve to identify Mortimer in a line-up, leading Steve to have a panic attack and then self-medicate with alcohol. James finds him drunk, and in the ensuing chaos, James is accidentally struck. It wasn't hard enough to bruise, but it startles them both. James readily forgives Steve.


	12. Ligne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natalia, James, and Steve travel to Russia where James finds the missing piece of himself.

Arriving in Moscow was an experience, but what Steve noted first was how familiar it felt. There was still traffic clogging the streets. Overworked professionals still rushed about their daily lives. The air was still heavy with exhaust fumes from vehicles packing the airport terminal. Yet somehow, everything was different, too. The architecture was an eclectic mix of old and new. Utilitarian buildings leftover from Soviet Russia stood beside modern architecture, and they caught a glimpse of the Bolshoi Theater on the way to Natalia's home.

Mr. Petrovitch had chosen to remain in his own home after his terminal diagnosis. It was a three story structure in the heart of old Moscow with two towers and steeply pitched roofs, so rather than staying in a hotel, they were accommodated in Natalia's childhood abode. Their first night there constituted the first time James and Steve shared a bed, but said bed was large enough they didn't wake tangled.

The following evening, after everyone had slept off their jet lag, Mr. Petrovitch felt well enough to join them for dinner in the formal dining room. Natalia glided down the stairs in a turquoise chiffon dress with a knee-length skirt and three-quarter sleeves, an outfit that made Steve grateful he'd decided on a button down and slacks. They started at opposite ends of the table, Mr. Petrovitch at the head and Natalia at the opposite end.

Dishes of pickled carrots, pickles, dark rye bread, crackers, and deli meats awaited them, but as they sat down for dinner, their host insisted on a glass of vodka as a traditional meal starter. Steve, adventurous when it came to his gastronomic exploration, was caught with his spoon in the pickled carrots and swore Natalia referred to him as a heathen before he scrambled to his feet to take up his vodka.

“Once, there was a man who craved power and wealth above family and love. He did not take enough pride in the jewel he had been entrusted to rear, so his jewel was lost, left to become something beautiful alone, but when the time came for his dying, his jewel returned to let him gaze once more on the brightness of her glory. So let us drink to this: Family before glory. Love before wealth.”

Steve sipped the contents of his glass and started to lower it toward the table only to be stopped by Natalia who tipped his glass up to urge him to continue until the contents had been drained dry. Household staff rushed forward to refill their glasses. Natalia then lifted her renewed drink to give a toast, and they each went around the table, draining their glasses dry after each person.

Finally, they came to Steve. He was already feeling buzzed from imbibing so much, and James touched his elbow to encourage him and offered a whispered, “Anecdote and then toast.”

“Not long ago, there was a man. We'll call him Grant. Grant's life had come unhinged. He was at the bottom of his rope and unable to hang on. Then he met someone we'll call Bucky. Bucky helped him remember how to laugh and how to cry. How to hope and how to dream. And Grant hoped that he helped Bucky in the same ways. So let's drink to this: To never walk away from meeting someone new, because you don't know when that person will be your salvation or you theirs.”

He knocked back the glass, the vodka going down smooth and warm, and when they sat, he felt James take his hand beneath the table for a quick squeeze. The warmth in the other man's eyes answered Grant's question, that yes, Grant had helped him feel again. Steve smiled and rested their foreheads together briefly.

The first course came, a light salad with a bright vinaigrette, and by the time they'd finished, Mr. Petrovitch, who insisted they call him Ivan, urged them to move their place settings to his end of the table. They clustered there, exchanging animated conversation. He'd never seen Nat so lively before, and hadn't realize how much she spoke with her hands despite the economy of her words.

Vodka and other liqueurs were served with every course, and he watched his Russian companions devour slices of black Russian bread and butter after finishing each dish. That meant Steve was drunk and full after the second course of soup, and they still had two more to get through. By that point in the evening, he was wondering how rude it would be to vomit on the table.

It was with a look of horror that he watched staff carry out plates filled with a thick roast, stuffed new potatoes topped with caviar, and roasted carrots and parsnips with thyme. He couldn't take his eyes off the monstrosity set before him. They were trying to kill him. Of that, he was sure. Kill him with delicious food and alcohol poisoning.

James chuckled under his breath and leaned closer. “Eat a little bit of each offering. Never clean your plate in Russia. It will come back to haunt you.”

“You couldn't have told me that before I felt like I was going to give birth to a food baby?”

Another chuckle followed, and his companion rubbed a hand comfortingly over his back.

More laughter and stories came with the main course. He appreciated how they mostly stuck to English so he would feel included, although a more serious conversation had Nat and Ivan switching to Russian to whisper in intimate tones. After, Ivan rested his hand atop hers and kissed her cheek.

He survived the main course by the skin of his teeth. More vodka. More dark rye and butter, and the staff settled a dish in front of him that boasted a thick slice of marshmallow atop a thin cookie or cake and topped with a light glaze of chocolate. Along with dessert was served tea, which nearly made him weep with relief over having something other than alcohol.

James whispered, “Ptichye Moloko. Bird's Milk if you prefer English. Not all dinners are so formal and grand here. It is special. For Natashenka's homecoming.”

“Good, because at this point, I'm wondering how Russians don't all succumb to alcohol poisoning.”

It made the other man laugh, and he propped his chin on Steve's shoulder for a moment. “Is it really so bad? If you aren't having fu--”

“No!” He lurched his chair back and whipped to cup James' cheeks. “I didn't mean to sound like that. I'm having so much fun. This is so wonderful, you inviting me into your native culture like this.”

A moment of silence passed. 

Nat's voice came through quietly. “Steve.” She darted her glance between them and Ivan, who was eying them warily, and somehow, he knew this was incredibly inappropriate.

He dropped his hands like they'd been scalded and resumed his more formal posture at the table. Coming from New York, where two men could be affectionate in public without fear, it suddenly struck him that he had no idea how accepted the spectrum of sexuality was in Russia. Sure, there were news headlines about Russia banning homosexual athletes from their Olympic teams, and outlawing LGBTQIA propaganda, but he didn't have first hand knowledge of how closely guarded they needed to be when out in public. Best to keep his hands to himself while they were here.

Thankfully, Petrovitch decided not to make an issue of it at the dinner table, as he launched into another story about growing up in Soviet Russia.

Steve didn't bring it up until after they'd all retired for the night. James returned from the bathroom across the hall in striped pajama pants and a thin sweater and climbed under the covers next to him. The man then wiggled until he got comfortable with the blankets up under his chin.

“Do I need to-- How am I expected to behave while we're here. I mean with being gay and all.”

“You personally should not engage in that kind of behavior. I wouldn't even in Moscow, as I am stranger to this city. Some areas, you could hold hands and not be harassed. Other areas, it could get you attacked. There was a bill recently that would have banned same-sex people from holding hands and kissing in public, but it was not passed.”

“That's-- Not my place to tell Russians how to live their lives, but I find it reprehensible.”

“There is anti-propaganda law. You could get fined or arrested for staging rally, and if you are assaulted, some law enforcers will not take your claim seriously. To be safe, try act like friend and not my-- Not my-- I will be honest and say I'm not ready to call us anything yet.”

“That's fine. No pressure, but can I kiss your cheek?”

“Yes.”

Steve pressed his lips against the stubble on the man's cheek for a brief bit of affection. “So I'll follow your lead, okay?” He allowed a moment of silence to ensconce them in warmth before saying, “I had a good time tonight. Thank you for asking me to come.”

He slept better than he imagined he would in a strange place with strange noises that night, and if he woke snugged up against James' back, snuffing into the back of his companion's neck, well, he had no excuses except for wanting to be close to someone he cared very much about. Then Nat woke them by beating their heads with down-filled pillows.

A yelp escaped as he lurched upright.

“There is much to do, and you must be on plane to Siberia tonight. Up. Get dressed.”

When Nat claimed there was much to do, what she meant was there were a lot of calls to make, and he couldn't help with making them when his grasp of Russian was practically non-existent. They sent him out with a map on his phone, some cash, and instructions that if he got lost, he should call immediately.

That was how Steve wound up sight-seeing alone and taking selfies in front of various Moscow tourist sites. His favorite outing was visiting the Tretyakov Gallery and browsing the various art there. He even managed to stop and order himself a nice lunch at a bistro, and throughout the day, he felt less like someone was going to see the giant “Gay” written over his head in neon lights and come at him with pitchforks. The Russian people, it seemed, were much nicer than their reputation.

After lunch, he stopped at the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception near the Moscow Zoo and just happened to catch someone practicing on the massive organ. Music filled the building and reverberated through his entire body. He managed to record some of it on his phone before kneeling and praying the rosary for the repose of Mr. Petrovitch's soul.

He made it back for an early, and much less formal, dinner with Nat and her father and listened to more of the man's stories from his work in the Soviet government. It was fascinating hearing the differences between the Russian understanding of the Cold War and what was taught in American schools. Sitting quietly for the impromptu history lesson wasn't a hardship in the least.

But then it was time for James and him to catch a flight to Lyovikha. Apparently, the village was so small and uninhabited that it wasn't on a map, as he spent most of their flight pouring over google maps to find its location. James' hometown was only mentioned twice and both times in regards to the discovery of dead bodies and references to its descent into criminal activity after the mines shut down.

Of course, they couldn't actually fly directly to such a tiny outpost. Their flight landed in Yekaterinburg where they took a three hour train to Nizhny Tagil. Six hours after leaving Moscow, James rented a vehicle that could make the journey through the frigid countryside.

Steve was incredibly grateful he wouldn't be asked to drive in the Siberian terrain. There was nothing but snow for miles in every direction, as the region was still in the grips of Russia's infamous winter, and the only thing he could do was huddle behind the heat vents with chattering teeth. The thermometer inside their vehicle claimed the outside temperature was minus twenty one degrees Celsius. He wasn't a whiz at making conversions, but that was damned cold.

They left the city at six forty in the morning and arrived on the outskirts of Lyovikha at two in the afternoon. Ramshackle buildings in various states of disrepair guided them from the main road (when he said 'main road,' he really meant 'snow-covered pathway') toward the village center. No one had bothered clearing snow from the streets, so the only thing denoting their arrival was one sorry sign hanging askance on its pole on which Cyrillic text appeared.

Curtains pulled back from windows here and there as people glanced out to inspect the sound of their engine. Said curtains were quickly shuttered tight again, and no one exited their homes to greet them. The place looked dead, quiet as a graveyard. Part of him hadn't really understood how small a town James had grown up in until that moment, as the only signs of life were quiet tendrils of smoke drifting lazily from chimneys here and there.

Things livened up a little past the town's outskirts once they hit what might have been considered a main drag. Deep tire tracks cleaved the snow from previous vehicles. A few brave souls pushed through the frigid air and moved between the few remaining businesses. He could see a butcher, a small grocer, a baker, a hardware store, the essentials any town needed to prevent mass emigration.

Most of the activity took place outside a relatively new building where a few lonely trucks dotted a parking lot. Their tires crunched through snow as James pulled into a spot out front. More Cyrillic decorated what he assumed was a name plate above the door. It wasn't like a town so small pulled in enough tourism to warrant English translations everywhere.

He glanced over at his companion once James shut off the engine.

“There is life yet in Lyovikha,” James said. “Some brave soul replaced the old clinic with this one. I thought perhaps the village would be dead by now.”

He glanced toward his companion to see if he would continue.

Eventually, James said, “We will leave vehicle here. It will be safer.” He indicated the glass windows where they could see people moving around inside the clinic.

The second Steve stepped out into the wall of sub-zero air, he wanted to die. Even inhaling hurt, and he scrambled to take a couple of puffs from his inhaler upon feeling his lungs constrict in response. He adjusted his scarf in the hopes of covering his nose and mouth. The worst part, though? James didn't seem remotely put off by the frigid temperature, so Steve wound up feeling childish for wanting to hide. He dragged up his big boy panties and closed the car door.

The dancer laughed. “You look like a snowman.”

“Think I'd be warmer inside a snowman, Buck. Kinda rethinking my stance on cutting open a Tauntaun and crawling inside for the warmth.”

Something fond drifted across James' expression before the man started away from the clinic's parking lot. His boots crunched through the outer layer of snow and sank into the softer underbelly. How he managed to move with grace despite the layers of clothing and the cold was a mystery, but he moved like a lion, like the Serengeti belonged to him and no other animal could challenge his rule.

They passed a few people along the way, people who stopped to stare at them with wariness buried behind their icy eyes. Steve was aware of their vulnerability then. Two lone men would make a tempting target to a group of hardened locals, but no one attempted to intercept them.

Eventually, they stopped outside a four story structure sagging into its foundations like an old woman clutching her walker. It was drab, made of cinder block, and was missing most of its windows. Window sashes and door jambs were just shy of right angles, attesting to how poorly the building had settled, but what caught Steve's eye was the hulking shape of another building high up on a mountain top, the remains of the old mining headquarters resting like the bones of an old giant.

“During Soviet regime and just after second World War, Russia went through transformation and explosion of industry.” James' accent was stronger. “Things were built in hurry. Lyovikha was born during Soviet Russia to mine precious materials for use in expansion of empire. The village was built quickly. That is why cinder block and not more traditional Russian architecture.”

“Russian architecture became more Utilitarian?”

“Да. Buildings could go up quickly and with cheap materials.”

The structure seemed unoccupied. James forced the front door open with his shoulder and stepped into the dim interior. Dust covered the floors and fixtures. An elevator, complete with a manually-closed gate, sat unused. It looked like it had seen better days. They avoided the elevator and moved to a flight of stairs to begin the trek upward. A few windows had been busted out or cracked enough to allow snow to pile on the floors, further attesting to the lack of occupants.

Two flights of stairs they went up until James abandoned the staircase in favor of moving down a hallway. They stopped in front of an apartment at the end of the hall, the jamb showing signs of forced entry and the door cracked open. His companion pushed inside.

A musty odor hit them. James turned on his cell to illuminate the interior. At one point, the ceiling had rotted out, allowing water from the apartment above to drip down the walls and onto the floor, causing a section of flooring to buckle. The source of the musty odor appeared to be water damage and mold.

Some bits of furniture were still scattered about. An old sofa dominated one wall. The cushions had been removed, and it appeared someone had stripped as much fabric as they could, leaving behind the various springs and wooden supports. The pot-bellied stove sat unused, its flue venting out the wall. Beneath it, the floor seemed soft, slowly collapsing under its weight. 

James snapped a few photos.

“This is where Rivka and I grew up.” James ruffled his fingers over the tattered curtains still hanging over the windows. He appeared lost in thought for a few moments, eyes trained on the remains of an old mattress tucked into the corner. There was evidence a curtain had once suspended from the ceiling to offer the occupant some privacy from the living area.

“We slept there.” He indicated the corner.

Then, slowly, they made their way through a doorway into a miniscule kitchen. There was just enough room for the various appliances. Steve would never get used to seeing a European refrigerator. They were tiny in comparison to the American version. Ancient, flowery wallpaper covered the walls. Parts were frayed and shredded, but he found a sign of its original color behind a calendar suspended on the wall and marveled at the vibrant reds and yellows of the flowers.

Through the kitchen, Steve found a linen closet on one side of the hallway and a bathroom opposite. More evidence of the differences between American and European cultures. The bathroom was tiny and didn't actually contain a toilet. That was housed in what he had mistaken for a linen closet, which seemed counter productive when the apartment was already clown-car small to begin with.

At the end of the hallway, there existed an actual bedroom just big enough to contain a dresser and a medium-sized bed. It looked like people had chopped away the wooden parts of the foot board and headboard, leaving behind the metal bits. There were even some clothes left behind in the drawers.

James trailed his fingers across the chest of drawers and smiled a little. “Mamochka would sit here and apply her makeup. That was before, when Lyovikha still imported goods like makeup from the larger cities. I can still hear her voice murmuring for us to finish our school work, because education would buy us freedom from Lyovikha.”

“Are you sad you left?”

“No. There was no future here. If we had stayed, I would have been recruited into the local bratva. Rivka would have turned to prostitution or drug running, and our lives would be bad.”

“Can I touch you?”

At the other man's nod, he moved forward and wrapped both arms around James to snug the man up against his larger body. He could pass it off as sharing warmth, but the truth was he desperately wanted to offer the other man some sort of grounding or comfort. He was glad for the contact when the dancer shivered in his arms and pressed back into him.

The moment dissolved when voices drifted upstairs from down below. Something crashed. James stiffened and extricated himself from the embrace. “We shouldn't linger in any one place too long.”

Making their way back downstairs proved difficult. They moved on silent steps, but when they approached the landing, James held up his hand to stop their progress. Steve wasn't sure why until he caught sight of a shadow splashing up against the wall, evidence that someone might be waiting for them at the base of the stairs. He hadn't realized how genuine the possibility was that they could be attacked until that very moment. It spiked his heart rate and made his palms moist.

They had to go back up as quietly as possible to find an alternate route down to the ground floor. That involved dropping through a hole in the floor to the apartment below James' birthplace and taking a circuitous route to avoid their would-be attackers. 

Both men had just made it outside when said attackers realized they'd been thwarted and came down the staircase. They emerged from the main door just as Steve and James reached the end of the block, prompting both men to dash back to the main strip where they'd left the car. An elderly man and his wife stepped out from the clinic. Down the road, a small group of people left the general store. The hooligans wouldn't attack with witnesses around, at least so Steve hoped, but he was still relieved that his companion entered the clinic rather than hanging around outside.

Warmth wrapped its fingers around him and allowed him to de-mummify himself to breathe naturally. Activity stopped when they entered, as they became the prime focus of attention until a middle-aged woman in scrubs greeted them. She spoke with James in rapid Russian. Steve gave up trying to decipher their conversation after the first few words and inspected his surroundings instead.

The clinic was clean, smelled intensely of disinfectant, and was cramped. The intake desk took up most of the room with only a handful of chairs that looked like they had been re-purposed from a school spread across the opposite wall in a makeshift waiting area. Two or three people still bundled against the winter cold sat there, faces worn and leather-thick, chapped from their environment. They showed the age and care of their lives.

James nudged him in the ribs, effectively pulling him from his desire to capture the people in pencil.

“We're going to old clinic now. Albina says building still stands and that we can leave car in parking lot until we return. It will be some distance to hike, but car won't drive through overgrowth. Then we go to boarding house for rest.”

“They have a boarding house here?”

“Convalescence home for the elderly. They have room free for us.” James clenched his teeth. “Sorry. Say me how to tell--” The comment ended with a snarl of frustration.

Steve touched the man's elbow. “Hey, stop that. It's only natural your Russian is stronger here, immersed in your native culture. Just slow down and find your words.”

A solid minute passed, their breaths billowing in the cold, before James spoke again. “There is a storm blowing in soon. The roads won't be safe to travel until it passes in the morning. Albina runs a convalescence home out of an old monastery for elderly who cannot live alone. They have a room open. She invited us to stay until the storm passes.”

“That's great, Buck. I worried about driving on those roads at night anyway.”

After their brief conversation, both men grabbed back packs from their vehicle before starting the trek to their final destination. It was slow going once they left the main road behind. Life on the east side of town seemed to have completely dried up. The area was abandoned and left to crumble. Summer weeds ran rampant, now dried into brittle husks from the long winter. Several large trees clustered together in one street, their canopies barren skeletons drooping under the weight of snow and ice.

Buildings were tightly packed in that section of town but were also older and more susceptible to the elements. Roofs had gone long ago. One building had collapsed and was blocking part of the street. They had to pick their way around the structure to avoid falling and braking and ankle.

Eventually, they passed a marker and stepped onto the remnants of an old road leading out to a fenced in property. An old iron gate blocked their passage. The gate, rusted and broken in places, was held closed by an ancient chain fighting against the elements to fortify the area from would-be thieves. It appeared no one had attempted to cut the chain, something he found odd given the obvious signs of looting throughout the rest of town.

He brought it up to James, who had a simple explanation: Fear. Locals wouldn't cross the boundaries into the Angel of Death's domain. They wouldn't risk inviting her spirit back to their own homes.

The thought occurred to him that maybe they shouldn't be violating her boundaries either. Irish sensibilities and all. Nana had instilled in him a deep respect for superstition. Never build in the path of a fairy fort. Leave the door unlocked and set a place setting for each deceased member of the family on All Souls Night. Always leave out a bowl of cream and honey if you thought you'd angered the fairy folk. If you yrip and fall in a graveyard, you'll die by the end of the year.

Before he could suggest they tread cautiously, James scrambled over the gate and dropped down the other side. The man's expression was tense and determined as he turned toward the ramshackle building. Given that Steve cared deeply about him, he had no choice but to follow him over.

He was ninety percent sure he would regret it in the morning. “This is how horror movies start.”

His quip was met with a soft huff of laughter while James strode down the drive and into a small parking lot. Various weeds had broken through the cracks in the pavement. “This will be the resolution of my horror movie. I hope.”

Steve just about jumped out of his skin when debris fell from the roof. Moments later, a flock of native birds scuttled into the skies. He was ninety percent certain the clinic would be the resolution _of his life_ and wound up tangling his fingers in the back of his companion's coat to prevent them being separated.

“Are you frightened?” The Russian looked back with a smile.

“No!” He was definitely frightened.

“I won't let the angel have you.”

That said, James used a stone to break out the glass on the door in order to reach inside to unlock it. Said door swung open with an ominous groan. To Steve, it sounded like banshees wailing to warn of impending doom. His hand tightened on the other man's coat.

 

Memories played like a reel to reel projector as he stepped into the old clinic's foyer. The place was still intact, right down to the chairs lined up against the wall of the waiting area, just like it had been locked up for the night with every intention the staff would return the following morning to resume business. Only James knew better. Something buried in repressed memories knew better.

That suspicion was proved by the crime scene tape stretched across the entryway to the children's ward. He pushed the tape aside to enter, uncaring that he reached behind him to seek Steve's hand, a hand that settled warmly against his own. The comfort was immediate.

“Batya and Mamochka brought me here as a child for ruptured appendix. I met her here, the angel of death. She was nurse in this ward.”

His breath fogged upon exhale. He moved to an overturned bed and grazed gloved fingers across the iron bed frame. His own, much younger, cries filled his ears.

_A black dress. A white smock. A red cross. Thick heels clunked against the slate floors. Her sweet voice called into the quiet. “Sweet Yashka, I have come to take care of you.” Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the interior. One moment she was across the room. The next, her pale face was beside him, head crowned by a starched, white covering on her hair._

“She was-- How you tell-- She injected patients with bad medicine. To receive praise or feel like hero for saving them. She couldn't save them all. Many died.”

A reassuring hand settled on his back.

_“Sweet Yashka, I will take care of you now.”_

_“No. It makes me feel bad.”_

_“Take your medication like a good, sweet boy.”_

_“Stop. Stop!”_

_His small body heaved, feet kicking out against her much stronger hands. The bed gave. It rattled onto its side, spilling him onto the cold floor. Yashka scrambled away. Weak, little legs carried him away from the Angel of Death._

“I watched her inject a baby. It died in her arms, so she started coming for me, poisoning me with her concoctions. It meant I was here in the clinic much longer than normal. A month, I think, before she came for me the last time, and I knew, so I ran.”

James' feet retraced the path his small self had taken. He darted out a back door of the ward and headed down the hall into a storage room. The heavy footfalls of his companion bringing up the rear kept him grounded, kept the remembered terror from overtaking him.

Inside, buckets of overturned chemicals still remained where he had knocked them over in his haste. He turned to face the room side of the door and placed his palm over the stained print near the handle where he'd struggled to close it to prevent her from following.

_A black dress. A white smock. A red cross. Lights in the hall flickered. They snuffed out. He stretched, struggling to reach the lock on the door. Bright lights came on. Her face was in the window, pale, eyes black. Teeth vibrant white and displayed through a big smile._

James yelped and stumbled back into Steve's arms. His heart raced. Cold sweat beaded his forehead. “She's not there. She's in my mind. She's only a memory.”

His companion's voice soothed him as strong palms chafed up and down his arms.

He turned to peer toward the crawl space, the opening still gaping like a wound from where he had found it and followed it down hoping to escape. Rifling through his back pack allowed him to retrieve a flash light. He switched it on and approached the opening. Cold air gushed from deeper in the facility, a frigid blast of wind that chilled him to the bone.

“You can stay here if you like,” he said to Steve.

“Not a chance I'm letting you go down there alone.”

“You're afraid.”

“So are you. Might as well be afraid together.”

Getting through the opening was much more of a challenge than his smaller self, but he wiggled through into a tight corridor that led to a set of stairs. Must was heavy in the air, and light from his flashlight gleamed against decades worth of cobwebs stretched across the corridor. Eventually, it deposited them at a set of rickety stairs, stairs he took gently for fear they would collapse beneath them.

_“Yashka, I'm going to make you better. Let me make you better, sweet boy.”_

_Cold air startled weak lungs into rasping. Terror and illness prevented him from getting a full breath. He was light-headed. His knees shook. Thin fingers scrabbled across wooden walls until he reached a step. There was only one way to go. He stumbled down the stairs. Below, a dank room. Moisture dripped from the ceiling. A light bulb buzzed. It flickered on and off. He raced to duck into an alcove._

_The light flickered again._

_Chunky heels clunked down the stairs. Nearer. And nearer. The cloven hooves of Satan clomped onto the concrete floor when the angel reached the bottom._

_He was hyperventilating. Breaths too harsh in the near-silence._

_“You must not tell, my sweet boy. No matter what, you must not tell anyone about this place. They will know, my darling. They will know that you helped me make that baby cold. They will know and put you in a dark prison away from your family.”_

_He shivered in the cold._

_“I will find you there, my sweet boy. Where they put little boys who tell tales. I will find you and pull out your teeth one by one. I will will find you and take out your rib bones. I will find you and put out your eyes. So you must not tell no matter what they say.”_

“I hid there.” James pointed to a tiny alcove filled with shelves. He hadn't known at the time that the shelves had been home to jars of formaldehyde. He hadn't realized the formaldehyde was the last resting place for over two hundred fetal corpses.

They had long since been removed, after the investigation by authorities from Nizhny Tagil had concluded their work, after the Angel of Death had been taken away in handcuffs and James had been found-- He had been found-- He had been found--

_A black dress. A white smock. A red cross. A light flickering over head. Her face suddenly in his field of vision. A syringe. A scream. Desperation. He scrambled between her arms, grabbed something glass from one of the shelves and struck her in the head. Glass broke. She fell._

_He didn't wait for her to wake. Terror drove him through a doorway. It rode him hard through a room with a bed, a closet, black dresses, white aprons, red crosses, starched head coverings, walls filled with Polaroid photos of infants and children, some curled with age, some fresh. Terror cracked its whip, and he raced through a door, yanked it open._

_Howling winds shrieked outside. He stumbled from the buildings' basement into the snow and ran. She would be behind him. He could hear her heels clomping against the concrete, Satan's hooves clomping against the concrete and the smell of sulfur belching behind him._

_Deep into the woods, protected by nothing but his hospital gown._

“I hit her over the head with a jar. Didn't know at the time, but a fetus was in the jar.”

That strong hand was back on his shoulder, a constant warmth.

“It didn't kill her. Just knocked her out, but I ran. Through there.” He indicated the doorway.

The bed had collapsed from age, and all the photos had been removed to use in evidence. He trailed his fingers over a lighter square on the concrete where the rest of the wall had weathered but a photo had protected that area from stains. Across the room was a wardrobe. He could just see the sleeve of a black dress peeking out and yanked the door open, half-expecting to find her inside.

James collapsed back against Steve when nothing emerged. It was just a wardrobe full of black dresses and white smocks, but he could still feel the wetness of tears in response to seeing them.

“I knew I hadn't killed her, that she would wake up soon and follow, so I ran outside.” He indicated the door. It was now locked from the inside with a chain and padlock to protect the building from intruders, or prevent the angel from getting out into the rest of the town.

_He ran until his lungs gave out, until his knees refused to bend, until he reached the top of a hill and turned to look back, but he'd run so far he could no longer see the clinic or the doorway from which the Angel of Death would emerge. Illness and weakness made his legs collapse from beneath him, and he fell. He tumbled down the hill, busting his elbows and breaking two ribs on the way._

_When he stopped, dizziness turned the world around him. Eventually, he pushed up onto hands and knees only to see the grinning face of a skull, the grinning faces of numerous skulls. He screamed, screamed until his voice died and his lungs hurt._

_Efforts to move failed. He tried crawling back up the hill, but his damaged body wouldn't allow it. Eventually, exhausted and too weak to continue, he collapsed on the pile of bones and wrapped himself as best he could in an old dress that still robed one of the corpses. He lay there amongst the dead where the Angel of Death had placed him and drifted to sleep._

“Authorities and search dogs found me two hours later, but it was long enough to sustain frostbite. Doctors saved my extremities, but my left arm suffers considerable nerve damage, and my mind-- The cold did something to my brain. That is why I laugh and cry.”

“Oh Bucky.” 

Strong arms closed around him, and he allowed himself to lean into the warmth and comfort. “I remember now. After, we moved to Nizhny Tagil until trial. They tried to make me testify. Against the Angel of Death. She-- She looked at me. Like she could steal my soul, so I did not tell. That is why I did not say anything when Alex-- When he hurt me. Naughty boys who tell tales go to prison.”

A broad palm chafed up and down his arm rhythmically, but Steve let him speak at his own pace.

“She was found guilty and sentenced to life without parole, and after, we moved to the city of--” He broke off with a little smile at remembering their first meeting at Third Rail. “--Saint Petersburg city.”

Steve squeezed him and kissed the crown of his head. “Is this what you came here to find?”

“Yes. I couldn't remember, but now I do. That hole is filled.”

His companion was quiet for a moment before speaking again, “You were so brave, so, so brave. I know why Nat calls you her little soldier now.”

“I wasn't,” his voice was muffled against Steve's shoulder. “A brave boy would have told someone. That baby I watched go cold in her arms would have lived if I'd told someone. That's on me.”

“You were a child, Bucky.”

“It still feels like I could have...” He trailed off.

“Sam always tells me that feelings aren't right or wrong. They just are. I'm sorry you feel that way, and I think maybe you should talk to someone about it instead of letting it fester inside you.”

He nodded and pressed himself deeper into Steve to inhale the man's scent before pulling back. “We should go. It will be dark before we get back to the car.”

“You found what you were looking for?”

“Yes. There is nothing else for me in Lyovikha.”

They were mostly quiet on the way back to the clinic. He was right. Sunlight abandoned them after scaling the fence, and that made things more dangerous. He was fairly certain they were being followed and was just relieved that Steve hadn't hit anyone as the man seemed prone to whenever injustice circled his hemisphere.

The bright lights of the clinic offered them safety, though, before any of the locals could mount any sort of attack. It was a relief to step into the clinic's warmth where Albina offered them hot coffee as they waited for her to shift to end. She chatted amicably with him during patients until it was time to lock up for the night.

He warmed up the car so that by the time Albina had finished closing and had gotten into her own all terrain vehicle, they were able to follow her out of town. Roads were practically non-existent outside the main thoroughfare, and the going was a struggle in a few places. The driveway, a gentle hill leading up the old Russian orthodox monastery, was the worst challenge. He spun out a time or two. He was fairly sure Steve either broke his hand clutching the door handle or the handle itself but didn't have the heart to rib him about his lack of faith in James' driving.

Gathering their meager baggage, they followed their host inside and were shown to a third floor room. It was sparse, containing only one small bed and a dresser. They would share the bathroom with the elderly citizens on that floor, but at least it was warm and the linens clean. Each man took a quick shower to warm up and get rid of the dust of travel before going down to a communal dinner.

He didn't imagine the look of dread on Steve's face, who was no doubt suffering flashbacks from the feast Ivan Petrovitch had treated them to. It made him laugh and nudge the other man in the ribs, but dinner was nothing like its formal cousin. They ate hearty stew and thick, Russian black bread. The staff cook brought out an apple cake for dessert that made James' toes curl with pleasure. If there was one thing he missed more than anything about Russia, it was the cuisine.

The thing he enjoyed more than the food was the general atmosphere. Being surrounded by a group of salty old Russians again made him feel like the world stabilized beneath his feet. Outside cultures might find the Russian people rude and aggressive. They rarely smiled at strangers and gave no concern for American politeness. The older generation was conservative, hated change, and weren't shy of stating their opinions, but they were a warm and hardy people once you got past their wariness.

Watching Steve attempt interaction with them tickled James. Some there spoke rudimentary English and weren't shy about complimenting the visiting American on wearing the proper footwear (boots instead of sneakers) and the high shine of said boots, a line of conversation that totally flabbergasted Steve and an American's refusal to look at other people's feet. He explained that some doormen might refuse a person entrance to a particular club for wearing sneakers instead of proper footwear.

The more they talked, the more they opened up and the natural Russian curiosity came out. They wanted to know what kind of work Steve did, how much money he made, and if it was true that Americans were culturally dead by writing off literature, opera, and the fine arts. Naturally, that led to demands for Steve to sketch for them.

James sat back and took photos of his companion, the man he was coming to care a great deal about, surrounded by a bunch of overzealous Lyovikhans fascinated by his artistic ability. To take the focus off himself after a while, Steve, throwing a wink in his direction, revealed that James was a ballet dancer. A chorus of excited voices urged him to give them a demonstration.

That was how James Barnes found himself performing a male variation of the iconic dances in Cinderella, much to the delight of his audience. Dancing in front of spectators had always been a rush, but there was something intensely personal and intimate about doing this for his countrymen, men and women who were cut off from the rest of their culture and likely hadn't seen a ballet in decades, maybe not ever. So he threw himself into it body and soul and earned rousing applause at the end.

Later, after a few drinks and good conversation, Steve and James retired. Neither had slept well before starting the trip to Lyovikha, so they begged off for the night and retreated to their room where they changed into warm pajamas and curled into bed together.

“I had a really good time tonight,” Steve murmured into the quiet.

“I'm glad.”

“Thank you for bringing me. Ma and I went to Ireland a couple of years ago, but I've never been anywhere else. This whole trip has been magical. I know it's for a--”

James shut his companion up by pressing his thumb to the man's lips. “Don't over-explain. It's enough that you have found the trip here worthwhile. It pleases me.”

“Did it-- Do you feel better after coming?”

“Yes.”

“I'm glad.”

Maybe he would never explain the feeling of living with an iceberg in his core. Maybe he couldn't ever find words to tell another person how hollow he had felt, how that missing piece of his past had left him unsettled and uncertain. It wasn't necessary that anyone else understand, only that he had found the puzzle piece that had slotted into place and allowed a certain amount of contentment to settle.

And he did feel content now, in a way he hadn't before. The angel no longer needed to haunt him. He had put her to rest where childish fears were locked away from the adult mind. There was no need to continue looking over his shoulder for something.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

“Yes,” breathed Steve.

Their lips met, soft brushing against soft. He lifted his hand to cup the side of Steve's jaw. Sensation did the rest, pulled him toward the source of comfort like a river pulling him toward the sea: irresistible and ancient. And he brushed his tongue against his partner's bottom lip seeking permission that was granted. He licked into Steve's mouth. The shiver of sound it produced went straight down his spine into the cradle of his groin where his cock twitched with interest.

The other man's tongue met his own with gentle strokes, strokes that were interspersed with a chaster variety of kissing. Their mouths fit well together, more puzzle pieces slotting into place. They deepened the kiss again, the blond taking the initiative this time to explore James' mouth. It made him giggle when Steve's tongue curled behind his teeth to lick the roof of his mouth.

For a while, they enjoyed the intimate touches while their combined body heat warmed their cocoon of blankets. Neither were in a hurry to do anything more than make out. That is, they were content until James slid his palm down the other man's chest and thumbed the kernel of Steve's nipple through his shirt. The other man sucked in a sharp breath and arched into the touch.

It was a short journey from there into more dangerous territory, and before he really knew what he was thinking, his hand was inside Steve's pants. It startled Steve. He immediately removed his hand. Of course he shouldn't be touching his companion like that, not after what Alex had--

Steve interrupted the downward spiral of his thoughts with a whisper. “Don't stop. Just took me by surprise is all.”

“After Alex--”

“I'm not afraid of you, and we're not talking about anal here. That might make me incredibly nervous. This doesn't. I want to feel good and to make you feel good.”

He didn't ask if Steve was sure, as he trusted the man to know the words coming out of his mouth; he just capitulated. With grace. His mouth found Steve's again. Their tongues slid against each other with velvet softness, each tasting the last glass of vodka they'd consumed but not so tipsy they didn't know what they were doing.

“Let me get...” Instead of finishing, he rolled out of bed briefly to get a pack of wet wipes from his travel bag, at which point, he climbed back under the covers to recoup the heat lost by him breaking the seal on their cocoon. “I want to make this so good for you, Steve.”

Steve lifted his hips to push his pajama pants down to his thighs and urged James to do the same.

They kissed again. It was the gentle curl of tongue dipping into each other's mouths that sent tension straight to his erection, caused the rubber band in his groin to pull tighter. He couldn't swallow the warble of sound that escaped. Nothing prepared him for the anticipation that made his skin feel tighter in the best possible way. He moaned into Steve's mouth.

He spat in his palm and finally wrapped fingers around Steve's erection. It filled his hand in such a nice way that another shiver of want scuttled through him. The first pull made his companion—his lover—gasp and press into the touch, and James traced the glans with a thumb, circling and then flicking across the slit to learn Steve's unique texture, the man's cock blood-hot and heavy with want.

“Good Christ,” Steve breathed. One arm settled beneath his head. The other wrapped around James' shoulders to pull him closer, but James felt the fingers on his left arm as little more than pins and needles. It didn't bother him enough to ask his lover to move the hand.

James used his free hand to tilt Steve's face in his direction so they could kiss again, and he slowly jacked the cock in his grip. His thumb skimmed across the frenulum and pulled another soft moan from his partner. The sounds Steve made turned him right on.

“Relax,” he murmured while mouthing along his partner's ear. “I've got you. Touching you makes me feel so good. You have no idea.” He lapsed into Russian after that, speaking so Steve would hear his voice and always know who was touching him. Occasionally, he switched back to English to praise the man's body, how sculpted he was, how much James wanted to map the peaks and valleys of his illiac furrow with his tongue.

“Bucky.” Steve's voice broke. “Buck, what are you doing to me? I feel so--” Whatever he had been trying to say ended in a broken sound as Steve fucked into the palm cradling him. “Please. Please.”

James pressed lips to the sensitive spot behind Steve's ear and continued until his partner stiffened, until Steve arched, until the hot spurt of the man's orgasm splashed against his hand and Steve's stomach. His partner tensed, shivered, and gasped his way through the peak and for long moments afterward, fingers splayed and twitching to somehow contain or express the strength of his orgasm.

And he had never seen anything more beautiful than the open-mouthed wonder on the other man's expression, the heady intensity melting into something warm and peaceful. And he was suddenly very angry that Alex had almost taken this moment from them. Alex had almost broken Steve's will to share something so intimate with another person.

James skimmed his lips along Steve's jaw until his lover turned to meet lips with lips. They kissed lazily while pleasure continued skittering along their skin. A peaceful sort of silence followed. He was in no rush to see to his own pleasure nor to relinquish his hold on the thick body between his arms.

Eventually, Steve was the one to move by rolling onto his side and tearing open the pack of wet wipes to clean them up. He murmured, “Can I?” His hand hovered above James' chest.

“If it pleases you.”

“It pleases me. A lot.”

Steve's big palm repeated the path down James' body until thick fingers wrapped around him. He shifted to make himself more available and parted his legs when Steve's other hand moved down to cradle his balls. The sensation coiled his body tighter. He could already tell he wouldn't last long.

“Surprised you don't split your dance belt with a package like this.” Steve grazed his nose along James' stubble so he could enfold warm lips around the lobe of James' ear.

A soft snort escaped James. “Same could be said about you.”

The palm skimming along the shaft of his cock drove him bonkers. It was like he was a puppet and Steve controlled the strings because no matter how much he told himself to stay still so as not to spook his lover, he couldn't quite resist fucking himself up into the tight glove surrounding him. The sensation was intense. Steve gave him no opportunity to catch his breath or even attempt to control the rate of his orgasm.

It simply bloomed, a bud opening to meet the spring. Tension snapped. He felt the hot rush of his orgasm followed by ropes of come splattering across his stomach along with releasing soft whines and huffs of breath during the peak. When there was nothing left to give, he sagged into the mattress.

He was dazed afterward and only vaguely aware of Steve wiping him up and tossing the wet wipe onto the floor, but the warmth of being enfolded into the other man's thick arms brought a sense of safety. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt like this after orgasming. Couldn't remember the last time someone had held him through the afterglow. With a sigh, he snuggled back into his lover's body.


	13. Manèges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve considers dropping the case because of threatening language from Alex's soccer coach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to Sophie for giving me more accurate information on Type 1 Diabetes and dangerous sugar levels. I hope this addresses most of your concerns.

Days later, and back in their apartment at the Octagon, James awoke to Natalia's crimson head pillowed on his thigh. She murmured something sleep-slurred and unintelligible before sitting up to rub her eyes. She flopped against the cushions on the couch, head snuggling into the softness where she could make eye contact with him. The other dancer looked emotionally drained. They didn't speak.

Natalia's breakdown had been inevitable, he supposed, so he hadn't been surprised when, standing in line to board their flight out of Moscow, the mask of stoicism had crumbled like a dam collapse. If her stoicism had been a breaking dam, then the water had been her grief; it had gushed out in torrents.

Thankfully, Steve had been there to take over having their boarding passes checked and finding their seats in first class, leaving James to keep Natalia safe in his arms. Weeping in public was a nightmare to someone like her, and she'd already expressed her gratitude for the shield he had provided. In short, James had never seen her so out or sorts.

The thing was that choosing between staying with her father for the remaining weeks of his life and returning to New York had taken its toll on his friend. It wasn't that she felt so little for her father; it was that she felt so much for her career. In the end, Mr. Petrovitch had insisted she put her career first, citing the uselessness of someone so vibrant crawling into the death shroud of a man who'd already lived past his usefulness. Not even those reassurances could take the guilt, though.

He carded fingers through her hair. Her expression was pinched, eyes red and puffy from sobbing on and off through the night. Ivan the Terrible had at some point curled up atop her feet and filled the silence with a motorboat purr. James adjusted the blanket covering her and glanced up when Steve padded from his room in a pair of sleep pants and a sweater.

My didn't seeing his lover so bed-ruffled bring back pleasant thoughts.

Steve mimed drinking. 

He nodded in return and watched his lover glide into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.

The scent of roasted beans finally stirred their guest, who rubbed palms against eyes again and murmured her discontent in Russian. No one had ever lived to report Natalia upon first waking. There was something charming knowing she was as human as the rest of them, with hair tangled from sleep and drool crusted on her chin. She wiped a hand across her chin in an attempt to hide the evidence. 

“What's the time?” she asked, voice hoarse from last night's tears.

He glanced at his phone. “Eleven fifteen.”

“In the morning?” Alarmed, she surged upright.

The sudden motion, dislodged Ivan the Terrible, who hissed in retaliation.

“We didn't get in until after three, little spider.”

Her red bird's nest refused to lie flat despite repeated attempts, so she abandoned all hope in favor of snuffling back snot and sleep. After, she slumped. Her thirty-yard-stare could have bored holes in the glass of their main window that overlooked a garden just filling in with the first shoots of an oncoming spring. When Steve brought a cup of coffee, she cradled it in her palms and sipped.

“Anybody hungry? I can head over to the mainland and grab some Dunkin' Donuts if anyone wants.”

Natalia waved a hand. “Whatever is fine.”

“Eggs and toast then.”

She sat back against the cushions. Ivan immediately filled the space between her chest and legs. He seemed happy to settle into her lap and purr. After a moment of silence, she said, “You two have been different since Lyovikha. Did something happen?”

Both men shared a glance, neither sure if the other was ready to announce their whatever-it-was. Finally, James responded, “Steve and I are seeing each other.”

She hummed into her coffee. “Don't fuck it up.”

“You owe a nickel to the swear jar, Nat.”

If looks could kill, Steve would have just taken a mortal blow. “I'm serious. About the two of you.”

“So are we,” James said.

“Good.” A beat of silence descended. “Where are my eggs and toast.”

“Good Christ, someone is grouchy this morning. I have two hands. Contrary to popular belief, I can't grow a third out of my asshole.”

“It's popular belief you can grow a third hand from your asshole?”

“Mr. Misdemeanor uses it to defeat his enemies.”

“Traitor,” Steve fired back.

A beat of silence passed before all three of them fell out laughing. Afterward, a companionable silence arrived, interrupted only by the sound of a sizzling skillet and the pop of a toaster rocketing its contents to completion. There was something easy about said silence, about the way they ate quietly together.

James drove Natalia home after breakfast with strict instructions to call him if she needed a shoulder to cry on. It seemed an unnecessary offer, though, as a woman with dark victory curls and bright red lips met them at the curb and helped the ballerina from the car. The two shared a sweet kiss, and the woman, who introduced herself as Peggy, thanked him for taking care of Natalia. He hadn't even known his friend was seeing someone. He didn't know if that was because she was exceptionally private or he was just a bad friend who didn't pay attention.

Later that night, he went to the gym for weight training. It was important he get back onto his strict regime, as he'd let himself go during their trip to Russia. All the rich Russian food had gone to his waistline. Steve joined him at some point. They each put in their own earbuds and attacked the machines inside the Octagon fitness center, but there was still comfort in knowing the other was near.

Come Monday morning, he slung a gym bag over his shoulder and was rushing to get out the door to make his teaching class when Steve met him, still dressed from his morning run, with a thermos of coffee and a soft-bodied lunch bag that contained little bags of nuts, seeds, and a container of pea soup. Upon question, Steve shrugged and said he heard somewhere that peas were full of good carbs.

James was so touched he pressed a hand over his heart and surrendered to the sudden urge to kiss his lover—he wasn't at the point where he could refer to Steve as his boyfriend yet. Much more of the lunch bags, and it wouldn't be long, though.

Life settled into a pattern over the following couple of weeks. Steve went running and made him lunch. James left for the studio before his lover needed to be into the office but often got home before the other man, so he was in charge of making dinner. They spent the day dancing in rehearsals. It became an easy thing to trust the other man with his body. Their lifts grew more adept, their portrayals of the characters more intimate. Then, at the end of the day, they explored each other's bodies.

He loved sucking Steve off. His lover made the most delicious noises, and whose ego wouldn't be stroked by the intense orgasms Steve experienced. There was nothing better than watching the man writhe and gasp his way through coming completely undone beneath James' body.

Sex was amazing. Until it wasn't.

“Stop,” Steve snapped.

Immediately, James scuttled back toward the foot of the bed. “Did I hurt you?” Speaking was uncomfortable. His jaw was sore from the length of time he'd been mouthing and sucking on Steve.

The other man shook his head, jaw tight.

“Talk to me. I can't help you unless you tell me what's wrong.”

“'M just not--” A heavy sound left him. “It's just-- Fuck.” Steve pulled his knees up to his chest, his erection quickly flagging.

“Did I do something you didn't like? That made you afraid?” They hadn't even attempted anything close to anal play yet, but James tried to always be conscious of Steve's body language.

“No. Just drop it okay?”

“You can't ask me to just--”

His lover cut him off with a snarled “Just leave me the Hell alone for Christ sake! Jesus, Mary, 'n Joseph, what's a guy gotta do to get some peace around here?” He flung himself off the bed and prowled from the master suite. Moments later, the other bedroom door slammed.

James, stung and uncertain about what he'd done, quickly dressed and pulled his knees into the cradle of his arms. Ivan darted back inside and jumped onto the bed. The worst part? Steve left him to stew like that for more than an hour, and as each segment of time passed, he became more certain that he'd somehow triggered Steve, and he knew, God how he knew, that moving from friends to lovers had been a bad idea. What mattered was that he should have known better. There was no way a survivor of Alex would be able to fully commit to Alex's former lover. His worst premonitions had come true; Steve needed more than a distant, broken iceberg to make him happy.

Panic came to replace the uncertainty. Before he had a real plan of action, he was off the bed and grabbing his carry on luggage from the closet to pack a few things. He dropped it off by the front door and went back to load Ivan into his carrier.

Steve was by the door when he emerged from the master suite again.

“What are you doing?”

“You need space. This was bad idea. I knew it was bad idea. I can't touch you without reminding you about-- and it's not fair I don't know how to--” He swallowed a gasping breath as tears threatened. “Sorry. Sorry. I'll go. I'll pay my share of rent until you can find another--”

A big, imposing body moved in front of the door to prevent his escape, and it made his panic worse, reminded him too much of Alex stopping him from leaving the apartment, so he scuttled backward, forearms in front of his face to protect it from incoming blows. All he could hear was blood pounding in his ears and the harshness of his breathing. Then, silence.

When he peeked out from between his forearms, all he saw was Steve sitting on the floor several feet away. It helped. Steve had made himself smaller, and it helped enough that James lowered his arms.

“Don't go,” murmured Steve. “I don't want you to go.”

He didn't think he could finish a full sentence, so he remained quiet.

“God, I really mucked this up, didn't I.” It wasn't a question.

James didn't want to put any added pressure on his companion by agreeing or disagreeing.

“It wasn't you that set me off. My medications, they sometimes make it hard for me to orgasm.” The man looked ashamed and turned his gaze to the floor. “It hasn't been a problem before, but tonight? I think I kind of knew going into tonight that I wasn't in the right head space.”

Finally, he asked, “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Because I wanted you.” The man cringed. “Because I want you.”

He sank down to sit on the floor to make himself eye level with Steve. “We don't have to have sex to be together, you know. You could have told me before we started, or when you realized you weren't in the mood. I would have been there for you in whatever capacity you needed.”

Steve huffed. “By the time I gave up, my temper was-- I have a bad temper, Buck, and I took it out on you, and I'm so sorry. And I'm sorry for scaring you. God, I could slug myself for scaring you.”

“You should have said. Thought I'd hurt you or made you have a flashback.”

“I should have said.”

A beat of silence passed.

Steve continued, “You shouldn't have been so quick to run away.”

He could agree with that assessment, and now that the adrenaline had drained, he felt weak and shaky. Tomorrow would be soon enough to unpack his bag and put the place to rights again. Tomorrow, he would find another excuse to stave off unpacking, and the day after, and a week later until Steve would finally confront him about it, but for that moment, he just wanted the emotional upheaval to end.

“Can I hold you in bed?” he asked.

Steve nodded.

“Would you like to sleep in my bed tonight?”

Steve nodded again.

James got up and helped his companion to his feet. He stopped long enough to let Ivan out of his carrier before they padded into the master suite to get settled. Sleep was a long time coming.

***

Tension from their first couples fight carried on into the following week, but Steve did his best to ignore the unsettled atmosphere in the apartment. Living with and working around the man he was intimate with was an unexpected challenge, as there was no safe space for him to get away from James to have some privacy without the man's presence or smell or aura in the atmosphere, so it was with considerable gratitude that he finally went back to campus to pick up his actual diploma at Student Services Center. Clint, who also seemed to need some time away from his spouse's space, decided to come along for moral support. Or just for the nostalgia of being on campus again after graduation.

They caught up while strolling across campus and even ran into Billy and Teddy, but those two didn't have a lot of time in between scurrying to their next class, so they only got to say a brief hello. Being in the college environment again was rather surreal for both men. 

After picking up their diplomas, they got a coffee at one of the kiosks and sat for a while to enjoy the warmth of an early spring and soak in the sunshine.

Eventually, Clint became lost in the froth on his coffee.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Steve commented.

His former roommate shrugged. “You know, all throughout school, I think the diploma was the goal. I could look at the world and say that I'm the first Barton who ever graduated college. But once you get out, you're expected to have your life together and know what direction you're headed.”

“And you don't.”

“Bobbi wants me to go into law enforcement. She got me an interview at the academy with her former mentor. Guy named Phil Coulson.”

“Is that what you want?”

Clint shrugged one shoulder. “Getting up every day? Wearing a uniform? Busting people for going fifteen miles over the speed limit or having a joint in their car? That's, like, everything I don't stand for. I mean, Environmental Studies could translate well into working with conservation and Fish and Wildlife Management. That's what I wanted to do.”

“But...”

“Bobbi says it's not a real job. She's, like, way into her career, and I don't think she'd be willing to move out of Manhattan for my work.”

Steve bumped their shoulders together. “Sounds like you two need to have a long talk. You can't let her push you into something that'll make you unhappy.”

“Yeah.”

“Why don't you come by tonight? We can have a movie night. Get pizza. Contrary to popular belief, Ivan's visual acuity isn't based on movement. He won't eat you if you come over.”

“I want to. I really do.”

“But...”

“Bobbi has this thing for work. I'm supposed to go with her. Sometimes I feel like arm candy.”

Steve chuckled. “Thought you liked being arm candy.”

“Not when her co-workers are on a strict paleo diet.”

That made Steve guffaw. “Are you telling me you're mad because no one ogles you?”

“Not mad. Just superfluous. Look at me, Ma, all growed up and using college boy words.”

The conversation trailed off as his companion focused on the pavement beneath their feet, and Steve was just going to suggest they take a walk down to the park when a shadow fell over them. He glanced up toward an imposing figure, tall and lean with prominent cheekbones and a sharp jawline. The man was middle-aged, held himself like a statue, and there was an eerie sort of emptiness in his eyes, like the light didn't reflect from them naturally.

Steve stood so as not to allow this stranger to tower over him.

“You should drop the charges against Alexander and the others,” the man said, voice thick with a German accent. “You cannot win in this judiciary system. Save yourself the pain of being put on trial and drop the charges. If you do, I will guarantee your safety from retribution.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Clint demanded, shoving himself in between Steve and the stranger.

“I am not talking to you. I am talking to him.”

Steve's glance dropped to the man's collar when a glint of gold caught his attention. There, nestled next to a pin depicting the German flag, rested the skull and tentacles. He stumbled back a step. Felt his heart triphammering and his breath constricting.

“I have to go. I have to--” Somehow, he wrestled his focus back into the present.

“Consider your options. You are a gay man who will be painted a drug addict with no proof you were forced to consume what was in your system. You have since moved in with Alexander's former lover. Jasper Sitwell will take you apart on the stand. He will paint for the jury the truth that you engaged in intercourse with them and accused them of rape to separate Alexander from Mr. Barnes.”

“That's not true,” he gritted out.

“The truth is whoever can build a convincing story for the jury. Drop the charges. Go on with your life. Forget about this unfortunate chapter, and James and you both will be safe from retribution.”

“That's enough,” Clint snapped. “You're wasting your breath. Those douche-balloons are going down for what they did. No way does Steve Rogers back down from doing what's right.”

“Think about it.” The stranger turned to leave.

“Why are you doing this? What do you get out of threatening me?”

“My sweet boy won't go to prison. Not over you.”

Sweet boy. The endearment caught on the edges of Steve's mind. It was the endearment Alex had used with James, one the stranger used with Alex, and he suddenly felt a little sick at the idea that his rapists had learned their behavior from someone.

Steve, hollow, caught sight of an embossed name pressed into the leather of the man's briefcase. Professor J. Schmidt.

Once the man was gone, he sank onto the bench and couldn't stop tremors from working through his body. He couldn't focus on anything but the confrontation, the steadfast promise embedded in Mr. Schmidt's words. The thing was that it wasn't just him anymore. If it was just him, he wouldn't even consider the offer, but James was involved. Taking the deal meant saving James, too.

“I'm scheduling an appointment with the DA,” Clint said. “They need to know about this. Do you want me to call Sam? See if he's free for a session?”

He shook his head. “No, I just have a lot on my mind. I'll be okay.”

“A lot on your mind? You're not actually considering it, are you?”

“There's more of them, Clint. Didn't you see that pin? It runs deeper than just the three men who attacked me. If there's more of them, that means Bucky's in danger. They'll come after him.”

“Come on, Steve. If you let 'em walk, they're gonna go back to doing what they've been getting away with. Either you stop 'em, or somebody else is gonna get hurt.”

“Someone else will get hurt anyway!” He cringed from the tone of his own voice.

“Sorry,” Clint muttered. “Sorry, that isn't fair of me to put that kind of pressure on you. Look, at least let's go to the station and talk to the detectives on your case, okay? Let them know someone's harassing you and that there are more of those gold pins.”

Against his better judgment and the state of his wobbly knees, he agreed. They'd borrowed James' car that morning, so he let Clint get behind the wheel and drive them to the Twentieth Precinct where the case was being handled. Detectives Jones and Cage were in the building and interviewed them privately about the incident. Both detectives were sympathetic and offered to station a car outside their apartment in the event anyone attempted to raid their home. They also promised to look into Professor Schmidt to see what kind of connection he had with Steve's rapists.

In the end, they urged him to continue with the case, so he agreed to at least talk to his support system about it before making any decisions. He didn't know how he would broach the subject with James, though, when James was still so emotionally unhinged from Alex's abuse.

After, Clint and Steve drove out to their gym to get in a work out. Steve thought maybe the work out would sweat away some of the jittery feeling under his skin. At the very least, he would get to see Rogue, who was somehow the right side of calm but sassy that made him feel grounded. She was happy to see them when they entered, greeted them warmly with her rich, Southern draw.

“Logan took off on me for a week in the mountains. You wanna spar, sugar?”

“Yeah. That sounds perfect.”

“Get changed and go through your warm up and stretching. I'll get ready.”

It was the first time she'd deemed him ready to step into the ring with her. They met in the middle, wrists taped, boxing gloves firmly laced onto their hands. There was no denying Steve could out-punch her. It was simple biology. He could generate more force with each punch. If he could hit her.

That was the key element to their impromptu match. She moved like lightning, ducking beneath his heavy-handed swings and coming in hard to land blows against his kidneys, blows that felt like battering rams. By the time he swung around to defend himself, she was already gone, dancing around like a bird aware of an approaching cat.

She kept moving and therefore kept him moving until he was winded and his strikes became less powerful. He landed one against her face finally. She reeled backward into the ropes but didn't go down, and he hesitated in capitalizing on the advantage. She made him pay for that hesitation with a series of jabs toward his lower body. The instant he dropped his guard to try defend his trunk, she caught him with a right hook that put him on his ass in the corner.

Clint stuck his head under the bottom rope to make sure he wasn't dead. “She's schooling you, Rogers. Better stop thinking of her as a friend before she makes you eat your mouth guard.”

Determination put him back on his feet. They circled each other, and he finally caught on to her strategy. She was wearing him down. Took more energy to move his bulk around the ring, to power his punches, than it did for her dance around like a ballerina.

They grappled again. This time he was ready for her hasty retreat and pursued her until he had her backed into a corner. A solid blow struck the core of her body. He followed it with an uppercut that snapped her head back, but as he moved to land a blow that would hopefully put her on her ass, she dropped beneath his swing and scampered around his body back to freedom.

Moments later, Rogue called it a draw. She was being generous, of course. He may have landed a few good shocks, but she had clearly controlled the match from start to finish. They bumped gloves in the middle of the ring, and it was only then Steve noted that most of the gym patrons had come to watch, including Scott Summers, who was often there sparring with Logan.

“You've got some good moves, Rogers,” he said, “but you wanna beat Rogue, you gotta get more creative. You're like a brick wall out there and telegraph your moves like crazy.”

Which spawned a thirty minute conversation about body language that ended with the four of them sitting around a picnic table behind the building nursing bottles of Gatorade. And laughing. Much laughing over Rogue's colorful stories regarding her Olympic journey alongside one of boxing's greats, Claressa Shields. Rogue intended to go to Tokyo in 2020.

James' carry on bag mocked him from the doorway the moment he keyed into the apartment that evening. He didn't mention it to his roommate when the man got home later than expected. Nor did he ask where the man had been. It wasn't his duty to police another adult's comings and goings.

They made a quick stir fry and flopped on the sofa to watch something cheesy on Hulu together. He couldn't bring himself to broach the issue of the luggage that night or the night after. Neither did he mention his run-in with Schmidt. The atmosphere in the apartment was still too tense. It felt like it would shatter from a thrown pebble.

The third night, however, the brittle feeling snapped when they came home from the studio. James dumped his car keys on the table and dropped his gym bag. The man's shoulders were tense.

“Why has there been a cop car outside our building for the past three days?”

It wasn't the way Steve wanted to have the conversation, so he'd been hoping the other man wouldn't notice the cruiser. “I was approached by a man named Schmidt on campus when I was picking up my diploma. He threatened us if I didn't drop the charges.”

Emotions bled across James' face with frightening speed, disbelief to horror to anger, before he spat, “You didn't think I might need to know that? I've been walking around this city like nothing is wrong, and you didn't feel it necessary to warn me?”

“Everything's gonna be fine, Buck. Not gonna let them drag you into this.”

“How? Will you dress in red, white, and blue spandex and prowl city looking for gold pins?”

“No. I'm gonna do what Schmidt wants and drop the charges. This will all go away. You'll be safe, and it's not really my responsibility to protect others by putting them in prison.”

“Since when?”

“What?”

“Since when did Steve Rogers start tucking tail between legs and running from fights?”

“Schmidt's right. You really think this justice system, the people in this fucked up country, are going to believe the word of a gay man against college sports stars? This country that elected a racist bully like Trump to fill the highest office of the land?”

A moment of silence charged the air.

Finally, James said, “I'm so disappointed in you” before turning to walk toward the master suite.

The words landed harder than Rogue's fists. Having James yell at him was one thing. The simple statement punched so much harder than anger could. Knowing he'd disappointed the man was worse than a physical blow. It made him vaguely nauseous and prompted him to lob his own ammunition.

“Yeah, well the feeling's mutual, pal.”

James froze. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Steve jerked his head toward the carry on parked near the door. “One of the few times I was ever in your apartment, you did the same thing, had a bunch of luggage piled up near the door like you already had one foot out. Am I so disposable that you've been living life with one foot out the door?”

“That has nothing...” Clearly, the other man was uncertain as to what to say.

“I might be undergoing a crisis of conscience here, but you're always ready to run. You ran from your past. You buried it so deep you repressed the memory. You ran from Alex. You're running from me.”

James stared at the suitcase, an ice sculpture awaiting a spring thaw.

“I like you, Bucky. I really do. Sometimes I even feel like I'm falling in love with you. You're so easy to be with most of the time, but maybe you were right. Maybe we both have too much baggage to fit in this room. Thing is? At least I was willing to try. You came into this expecting it to fail.”

“What do you want me to do?” James was poised on the balls of his feet. He looked like a rabbit who had just spotted danger and was about to flee.

And Steve? He just wasn't the sort of person to walk away. At least not without trying. Something his mother had once told him came to mind while he stood there looking at the other man, a man he desperately wanted but was unsure he could keep. _'You start running, they'll never let you stop.'_

“Go to couples therapy with me.”

The other man was silent for a beat before firing back, “Don't drop the charges.”

“Unpack your bag.”

“Communicate with me during sex.”

“Be my boyfriend.”

“Don't ever propose to me in public.”

“Please don't break my heart.”

“Don't ever hit me.”

Steve felt tears on his cheeks. “Let me hold you.”

“Let me hold you.” The other man's cheeks were also wet.

They moved at the same time, arms opening to make themselves vulnerable as they stepped into each other. It wasn't an explosion of fireworks. The world didn't implode. There were no stars painted across their ceilings, but it was warm. It was comforting. It was like they finally found a home together, companionship, that one other person who clicked into place like the missing piece of the puzzle that was their lives.

Steve cried into James' shoulder. James cried into Steve's.

Later, as they burrowed into the sofa, having been unwilling to do anything but answer the door to accept the Chinese they'd ordered, Steve said, “Alex's proposal deserved to be turned down for no other reason than because he was inconsiderate enough to get you a titanium ring. You can't cut titanium very easily if it ever gets stuck on your finger.”

“I think that was the point.”

For some reason, it struck Steve as funny, so he wound up laughing until he was breathless. A few moments passed before he could calm himself enough to speak again. “What if they come after you?”

“I survived the Angel of Death. I will survive Hydra.”

“Hydra?”

“It's what they call themselves. Alex took me to a party once to celebrate the team's victory. Schmidt was there. He's the soccer coach. They worshiped him like a god. Alex put one of those pins on me and said people would leave me alone if I wore it.”

“They? Who's they?”

“Many people. Not just the soccer team, I don't think.”

“Would you come and speak with the detectives working my case tomorrow?”

“If you think it will help.”

***

Speaking to the detectives wasn't nearly as traumatizing as James had thought. It helped that they were both approachable people, no-nonsense and quick to reassure him whenever his Russian accent became too thick. They also thought the information could help in building a case against Schmidt and bringing Hydra under scrutiny. The other thing he learned was that Mr. Murdock, the district attorney, had officially filed charges against Alex on James' behalf. He would be tried for assault in the third degree, criminal obstruction of breathing, and rape in the third degree. Those charges were piled on top of Steve's charges of rape in the first degree, second degree assault for drugging him, and assault in the first degree for the beating that had caused hospitalization.

They went straight from the precinct to a nondescript brownstone to meet Jericho Drumm, who Sam had referred them to for couples therapy. Drumm greeted them at the door with a warmth that made James instantly like him. The man radiated calm and professional like a heater radiated warmth.

He bade them get comfortable on a creamy leather sofa and laid out ground rules. His office was a safe place to discuss hard issues, and it was paramount they not interrupt each other. Because those who interrupted were formulating their next volley rather than listening, instructed Jericho.

The session went well despite James' nerves, and they left the therapist's office with an appointment the following month and valuable tools in learning communication skills. Judging by the smile and easy body language, Steve shared his feelings. They even laced their fingers together to walk hand in hand toward the nearest station so they could head to Steve's mother's home for dinner.

After the therapy appointment, Steve's mood took a turn for the worse. They walked along to a subway station when someone knocked into Steve's shoulder. He snapped at the offender only to forget they were heading to the subway and walk back up the steps. James caught his arm and asked if he was okay, but his boyfriend didn't seem interested in having a normal conversation between men who cared about each other. He seemed more interested in getting fussy over something inconsequential.

The strange behavior came to a head when they arrived at Sarah's house and Steve passed out. Watching his boyfriend crumble to the floor, eyes rolling to the back of his head, terrified him in a way few things did. He couldn't catch the man quickly enough to prevent his head from recoiling from the kitchen tile.

Sarah came running.

“Bucky, would you go into the top drawer of the bathroom vanity? There's a black pouch there with a sugar test kit.” She sounded much too calm considering the circumstances.

He, on the other hand, was a nervous wreck but still leaped to carry out her bidding. Knowing his boyfriend—there was that word again—had health problems hadn't prepared him for confronting them face to face. Now that he had, he considered, for the briefest of seconds, whether or not he could sign up for a lifetime of moments like these. One look at Steve unconscious on the floor answered his question. Yes, he was prepared to deal with it for the rest of their lives. Steve was worth it.

Sarah took the tester to prep a strip, which meant James couldn't do anything but hold Steve's hand. Moments later, the digital screen read twenty-one. He knew nothing about diabetes but could tell from her expression it wasn't good.

She bustled into the kitchen to retrieve a red case that contained a syringe and vial of medication. "You can't just give him juice or candy if his blood sugar is this low. This is glucagon. It's an emergency medication and should be mixed properly.” Within seconds, she had administered the dosage into her son's upper arm. “He has a kit at home containing emergency medications, too. Make sure he shows you how to administer everything.”

“Yes, мадам.”

Fifteen minutes passed without Steve rousing, so she mixed a second dose of Glucagon. "James, I need you to call an ambulance now. Tell them Steve is a Type 1 diabetic who is unconscious after one dose of glucagon. I am administering a second now."

He grabbed his phone to do as instructed and stumbled through coming up with the house number. His heart was too busy beating out of his chest.

She rolled her son onto his side to prevent him from choking on vomit and said, “If he's unconscious for more than fifteen minutes, you're going to need a hospital to help stabilize him. Also, you can't just stick him with an Epipen and go about our day. If he has an allergic reaction that requires epinephrine, then you have to call an ambulance after injecting him.”

How she could be so calm was a mystery to him.

The ambulance arrived as Steve was beginning to regain consciousness, but they still insisted on taking him in to the emergency room. James rode with him in the ambulance. Sarah followed in an unmarked police car. His nerves didn't abate, not when Clint arrived after a text message, not when Nat turned up when he texted her, and somehow, the news made the rounds of whole company and several people arrived at the ER waiting room in solidarity. Pietro took over holding James' hand while they waited for news.

Finally, the doctor appeared to inform them Steve was conscious and his sugar was improving. James' shoulders sagged with relief, and he was invited back by Sarah to check on him. His boyfriend was sitting up eating a half a sandwich and drinking juice when they entered. He looked slightly peevish but mostly embarrassed by the whole ordeal.

That was the evening they had a long chat with Steve's PCP, who came in after hours to check on him, and it took the combined force of all three of them to talk Steve into getting an insulin pump that could be programmed to help him keep track of his doses. James couldn't put his relief into words and climbed right into bed with Steve despite the nurse's protests to hold his man in his arms. Getting to kiss his boyfriend's head, the man snugged up against his chest, felt right.

Eventually, Sarah asked, “Why didn't you tell anyone your diabetes wasn't under control?”

The pink elephant in the room had just been acknowledged.

Her son shrugged without lifting his head from James' shoulder. “Guess I just get sick of being fussed over. I've been to the doctor recently. We adjusted my medication, but with everything that's been going on, I've had a hard time keeping track of my levels.”

“This is important, Steve. There's nothing more important than your health.”

A sudden thought occurred to James, and he interrupted to ask, “What about a DAD?”

“Yeah. Sorry. Had one. Lost him a couple decades ago. It's just not the same now.”

“Not that kind,” he responded. “There is friend of family in California. Her daughter got a service dog trained to alert when her blood sugar swings wildly.”

“They make service dogs for that?”

That was how they wound up coming home, after considerable research, with a chocolate labradoodle they named Cocoa. She was trained by a well-respected training program, came with all her credentials, and wore a little red vest proclaiming her a service dog whenever she left the apartment.

Ivan was absolutely furious.

Clint, when he came to stay on their sofa after Bobbi served him with divorce papers, was not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fudged Steve's new service dog a little. As I understand it, it takes quite a while for a person to get used to their service dog and for said dog to be adequately trained in detecting an individual's sugar levels. There just wasn't time in the plot to adequately portray the real experience of getting a service dog. 
> 
> I choose a labradoodle for Steve because they don't shed a lot, being part poodle. They're also very smart which makes them highly trainable and a great candidate for service dogs. Plus, they're super cute. Check out a picture of Cocoa on my [Tumblr](http://marleymortis.tumblr.com/)


	14. Noctambules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A final hurdle and opening night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick warning on this chapter. I may have pushed the boundaries on the Mature rating here. There's a quick scene with anal play that starts with Steve proclaiming that James is going to do him in the ass tonight and wraps up with a scene break if you'd like to skip it. It's not incredibly graphic, but I thought I would warn in case someone doesn't want to read that.

Steve's heart ached. His best friend and ex-roommate was the only reason he'd survived those early months following the rape, but there was nothing he could do to ease the heavy burden. So, cradling a cup of coffee, he sat on the sofa and allowed Clint to curl up with his head on Steve's lap and sob. Fuck, he had never seen the man cry so hard in his life. Sometimes, he swore his buddy would cry hard enough to make himself sick. He was prepared with an old margarine container in that event.

But really, the only thing he could do was offer physical comfort, stroke his fingers through the man's sandy-colored hair while Cocoa, being the absolute doll she was, curled atop Clint's feet. It wasn't about repaying all of his friend's kindnesses, though; it was about doing everything in his power to help Clint realize he wasn't alone in this, that he was never gonna be alone.

James stuck his head around the corner with a concerned expression.

Steve just helplessly shrugged.

His boyfriend finally emerged with a gym bag slung over his shoulder. “I am going to leave. For work. We should-- I will bring home pizza for dinner, Clint.” The dancer paused to caress fingers down the man's bare ankle. “If you like, you can come to studio to watch rehearsals.”

Clint waved away the offer.

“Have a good day, Buck. I'll be in to the office in a little while, so I'll see you later.” He leaned up to reach James' mouth when the man ducked for a kiss.

Before leaving, James crouched close to Clint and said, “This is the garden. Colors come and go, frail azures fluttering from night's outer wing, strong silent greens silently lingering, absolute light like baths of golden snow.” He soothed his fingers through the other man's hair. “This is the garden. Time shall surely reap, and on Death's blade lie many a flower curled, in other lands where other songs be sung. Yet stand they here enraptured.”

Steve swallowed down the knot of tears lodged in his throat and offered James a look that should have conveyed his absolute adoration. They exchanged another quick kiss before his boyfriend left. 

“When I get home tonight, we'll go to your place and pick up as many of your things as we can fit in the Mazda.” Because of course Bobbi was keeping the apartment. Clint couldn't afford the rent on his own, so not only was his marriage of a few months ending, but he found himself homeless, too.

“I'll shower and be ready by the time you get back. I'm sorry for--”

“Hey, don't do that. You got nothing to apologize for.”

Snuffing back tears, Clint made a face and beckoned Cocoa to clip her service vest into place for him. The labradoodle laved her pink tongue all over the tear stains on the man's face. “Get outta here. Don't want my best pal to be late for work.”

“You'll be okay? I can take a vacation day.”

“Just wanna be alone for a while. It's okay, I'm not-- You don't gotta worry. I'm gonna bounce back.”

Steve glanced at the miserable man once before he was out the door to grab the shuttle to the tram station. A couple of kids cooed over Cocoa and attempted to come say hello. It astounded him the number of people who didn't take time to read the signs on her vest proclaiming “I'm working, please don't pet me.” Kids, he could understand. Their parents' only excuse was obliviousness. Or arrogance.

Neena greeted him upon his arrival at the office. The labradoodle was a big hit who spent most of the day curled up beside his desk. Cocoa settled herself in position and promptly made eyes at his co-workers. Most of the online advertising and media for the Soldier and the Mountain was already completed, so they'd moved on to making brochures for the upcoming tour.

Working at Avengers Media had been rewarding. He'd learned a lot under Ms Hill and Mr. Fury, and when he'd lost his internship, it had felt like the worst thing that could happen. Looking back, though, he could recognize how much happier he was with the NYCB. His former managers had been intense. Maybe he could have hacked it. Maybe working under pressure could have fitted him before Hydra. After, though? It was a change he'd needed.

He returned from lunch and walking Cocoa to find Neena perched on the edge of his desk. They didn't speak. She just directed him toward a news article. The headline indicated the arrest of Violet's soccer coach, Johann Schmidt, who after investigation, was in charge of sponsoring an underground fraternity referred to as Hydra. Students and alumni were coming forward about the abuse suffered at the hands of Hydra, both as pledges during hazing and as victims. Men and women lined up seeking justice.

His shoulders sagged. It was hard to say if he felt relieved or hollow. Busting Schmidt and Hydra wouldn't erase what he'd suffered, but it would guarantee no one else needed to suffer. Wasn't that the most important thing? That they couldn't hurt another innocent person like Chase Stein.

At the end of the article, James and he were acknowledged for their cooperation in the investigation. Schmidt may have gotten away with it, may have spent years victimizing people if they hadn't come forward. It couldn't erase the shame and trauma, but there was some peace in knowing his suffering had made a difference.

Neena touched his shoulder.

He cupped a big hand over hers.

After, he closed up his software for the day and made his way across campus to the stage for their last rehearsal before opening night. He couldn't get over the giant banner showcasing his character. Ma would flip her lid on opening night.

James met him outside James' dressing room where they exchanged a glance. The man's warm arms encircled him and urged his head down onto a comforting shoulder where whispered endearments chased away the hollow feeling in the wake of Schmidt's arrest. Cocoa nudged a wet nose against his hand. Between the two of them, he came away smiling.

He pushed a length of hair behind his partner's ear that had come loose from his bun. Words weren't necessary. It had always been that way between them, more so after the trip to Russia. A thousand words swam within James' storm-gray eyes. _“I'm here,”_ his eyes said. _“You're not alone,”_ they said. _“You'll never be alone again,”_ they said.

Their mouths brushed in the sweetest of kisses, prompting Steve to laugh when it reminded him of the iconic words at the end of Princess Bride. Something about their kiss being the most pure. He realized then, really understood, the swell of warmth inside his chest. He loved this man. He was in love with James Barnes, Yakov Buturovich Barinov, Yasha, Bucky, little soldier, whatever name he went by because that which you call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

They kissed again.

He murmured, “I'm falling in love with you” against his partner's mouth.

The confession didn't go as well as Steve would have liked, not that he was expecting James to say it back. Part of him understood that James would be gun-shy about an emotion that complex, but he certainly wasn't expecting the flash of horror in the other man's eyes or him pulling away.

“Please don't say that.”

“Don't say what's true?”

“It's not true. It can't be true. I don't want it to be true.”

“I thought that was-- I thought we were serious.”

Cocoa whined and lifted a paw to rest against Steve's leg.

“I am not ready. For love.”

The dog pressed more insistently against Steve's leg.

Natalia suddenly exited her dressing room, the bang of her door closing causing Steve to jump. The ballerina paused nearby, glance moving between the two of them, and surely she would see what was there, James' panic and Steve's confusion, but she only said, “Jarvis is ready for us.”

_“Any port in a storm,”_ James' eyes proclaimed before he scrambled into his dressing room.

One red brow quirked as though to ask what all that was about.

Stunned by the sudden turn of events, he shrugged helplessly before hurrying down the hall to the main locker room. There, Cocoa planted her butt on the floor and lifted a paw onto his thigh. He stared down into her soulful eyes. She cocked her head to the side. Offered a little woof. Finally, he recognized the signal. She was alerting to his sugar level.

Part of him wanted to ignore the warning. James had hurt him, so he wanted to hurt James in return, and he couldn't think of any better way than to have his boyfriend find him unconscious on the locker room floor. Trouble was that denying himself insulin wouldn't just hurt James. It would hurt Ma, Clint, and Sam. Even Mr. Jarvis and Nat would be hurt. Most importantly, it would hurt himself.

He grabbed his kit, checked his sugar level, and gave himself a dose of short acting insulin from his new pump. The needle was taped under the skin of his abdomen, and he wore the pump in a sleeve he'd sewn into his dance belt to prevent it from coming loose during dancing. Health insurance from the NYCB had finally kicked in, so he was no longer reliant about using the cheapest methods to control his health problems. It was a damn sight better than trying to insure himself before the Affordable Care Act and its laws that prevented companies from denying people based on preexisting conditions. He'd been paying a fortune for an expensive COBRA plan before healthcare reform. Leave it to Trump and his goons to destroy something that had saved lives.

The jitters began to fade once the insulin diffused into his blood stream, so he collapsed forward to rest his cheek atop the crown of Cocoa's head. She smelled soft, like the puppy shampoo he'd bathed her with a few nights ago. Her curly fur tickled him. She turned her head to lap lazily at the inside of his wrist. When James finally decided to leave, at least he would have Cocoa.

Pietro bounced through the door looking far more exuberant than anyone had a right to be. “You're not even changed yet, Steve. Say me how to--” The kid cursed in Russian. “Put the medal on the pedal?”

A soft chuckle escaped. “Put the pedal to the metal.” He got up to start changing into his costume.

“You'll stay for party tonight, yes?”

“I don't know.”

“You must. Wanda, my twin, will be here. You must meet Wanda. She has business.” The kid snapped fingers in front of his face like he was attempting to jog the right word order. “She runs Hocus Pocus and wants to bless the company for opening night.”

The last thing he wanted was to disappoint the kid when he looked so eager, so Steve said, “Sure.”

Pietro thrust his fists in the air to celebrate his victory. “Quick. Get ready.”

Steve sent Cocoa with Pietro. Mr. Jarvis had taken a liking to the labradoodle and sat with her in the audience during rehearsals where she could keep an eye on Steve. They'd tried leaving her back stage once. It had resulted in his new friend charging through the curtains and plopping herself next to him during his solo with James, her big brown eyes and dopy expression trained on him. If she was in the audience, she seemed to respect the barrier of the stage.

He tucked himself in backstage to watch the rest of the company moving like a well-oiled machine. Everyone got into positions ahead of time while costumers scurried around readying costume changes. Set dressers put the moving portions of the stage in their proper order. Lighting specialists finished rigging a new lighting change. Then came the breath before the storm.

James took the stage in his first costume, a variation on World War II battledress. There was a new fire in James' dancing. The man tore up the stage, body vibrating with emotion and energy. It was the first time Steve had watched the program from start to finish, and he found himself holding his breath in anticipation. He found himself marveling at the energy filling up the stage.

Then it came time for his pas de deux. A stage manager rushed him below the stage to the platform where he stood motionless. Next thing he knew, the platform lurched into motion as a panel in the stage floor slid aside. He arose. He stood over the crumpled body of the man he was in love with.

The Soldier and the Mountain went to war. Italy against Hannibal. The Spartans against the Persians. Alexander the Great against the world. Every ounce of anger he could summon over their earlier dispute bled onto the stage, onto each other, onto the dance. The hardwood became bathed with blood. But something changed in James' eyes when they neared the crucial tempo change.

The Soldier submitted. The other man's body became a reed in the wind, and they called a truce as their bodies surrendered to the magnetism between them. First came the Arabesque press lift. Second came the drop into the a fish dive. They transitioned into an over the shoulder lift from First Arabesque. Steve swung the man up onto his shoulder, and James held a splits position. 

A transition step into a running start that launched James into a shoulder sit atop Steve's left shoulder. Steve pressed into an extension and turned three circles before clasping James' hands to help him spin back to the floor. Lift and glide. Spin and plié. And back into a lift.

Finally, they stilled, James standing in front of him and looking out at the audience, the mask falling to the floor. Steve wrapped an arm across his partner's chest to hold him. The curtain dropped.

Out in the audience, Cocoa barked, and the troupe suddenly burst into giggles. Their giddiness was fueled by the endorphins of surviving their final dress rehearsal. Tomorrow night, there would be a real audience and real applause. 

Everyone laughed again when Cocoa charged through the curtains to tangle around Steve's legs. It was possible she was just a little clingy, but then, she was still a growing dog, still learning her manners. James, for his part, stayed close to Steve and stroked a hand over his back.

“I apologize. For earlier. I did not handle your confession well. It was selfish of me.”

“You know, I understand if you can't say yet.”

They weren't given much time to really discuss their feelings with the tools Jericho had given them, not when everyone ran around like chickens with their heads cut off getting ready for the party.

Hours later, after sharing an evening with their ballet family and with their clothes permeated by the lingering scent of burnt sage, they crashed through their front door only for Steve to push James up against the closed door. He bracketed the man's body between his arms. Their lips feasted. Steve's tongue dipped past the barrier of James' lips. He could never get enough of kissing James.

A couple of things happened in rapid succession then. Cocoa leaped onto the sofa to push her nose beneath a throw pillow. Ivan screeched and jumped up from his place on the cushions to scramble atop Clint's head. Clint screeched in fright. Then he cleared his throat and appeared resigned to his fate.

“Sleep in my room tonight, Clint,” Steve said. “Forgot the pizza. Order take out. Food money's in the coffee can behind James' protein powder.”

“Okay, but--”

“This man is going to fuck me in the ass tonight. I don't want to hear anything about your butt.”

“Alrighty then. I will just be outside. Protecting Cocoa's innocence.”

James didn't say anything until they'd retreated into the master suite, at which point he asked, “Are you sure you're ready for this? Especially after this afternoon?”

“Yes. I'm not saying I won't freak out in the middle of it, but I won't let them take this away from me. I've always loved being fucked. If I let them take that enjoyment away, then they win.”

James swayed their bodies from side to side, warm hands splayed across Steve's back. “I'm going to take care of you, little mountain. And the moment you think you need to stop, you are to tell me. I will stop. I would cut off my own dick sooner than hurt you.”

His partner was true to his word. There were moments when Steve asked him to slow down, and he slowed down. They quickly found out that having him on his stomach while James licked into his hole was bad touch and no mas pantalones, so he turned onto his back where he could see the man's face, where he could watch the danseur press a finger into his hole and lick around it. The stubble on his partner's cheeks created a pleasant scratch that made him arch. It made his cock twitch and drool.

When he finally felt relaxed, James rolled on a condom and slicked himself. The first hint of pressure freaked him out. James stopped immediately until Steve's breathing calmed down and he was given permission to try again. It wasn't any easier the second time. Being so exposed reminded him too much of the last time...

James pulled back. “That is enough.”

“No. I can do this.”

Frost-bitten eyes watched him with the steady pull of gravity. “I will not.”

Naturally, he felt inept, impotent in the wake of failure, but when he started rolling onto his side with the intent of curling into a ball, James stopped him.

“We will talk. Remember? This is not your fault. You have not failed.”

“But it--”

“You have not failed. It is the journey, remember.” James grasped Steve's hand and pulled his fingers onto the firebird feather smoldering on the dancer's skin.

“It's the journey,” he breathed. After a moment, he tried again. “Could we-- Could you maybe watch me while I-- With a toy.”

The smile that pulled at the corners of James' lips said he was pleased with this new turn of events. He rolled off the bed and retrieved a small vibrator, a condom, and the lube. He prepped the vibrator with the condom and lube and settled it on a wash cloth next to Steve's hip before retreating.

Steve felt like he was on display. There was some discomfort of being watched while doing something so intimate, but every time he looked at his partner, he saw nothing but desire, lust, the dilation of the man's pupils that said he was enjoying this immensely. He fingered himself enough to work the vibrator inside his channel, at which point, he flicked it on. The soft hum against his prostate pulled noises from him that he hoped James could one day be responsible for.

He didn't expect himself to be able to come, so it was a total shock when orgasm suddenly overtook him, when he arched until nothing but the back of his head and his heels touched the mattress. It was only after, when he'd collapsed through the aftershocks and slipped the vibrator from him that he realized James had jerked himself to completion while watching.

“I want to say-- I want to tell you--”

Steve padded over and silenced him with a kiss. Words didn't matter. They had shared something incredibly intimate, and words weren't needed to legitimize their feelings. He knew James cared deeply about him. Being unable to say the words wouldn't change that.

***

James was oddly calm when he woke the next morning. Opening day was normally a time of insanity. He would wake up tense, go for a run tense, prepare his daily caloric intake while tense, and manage to freak himself out before curtain call. It wasn't the same this morning. Maybe that had something to do with waking to Steve's head pillowed on his chest and their legs tangled.

Yesterday's events came rushing back. He couldn't have possibly bungled Steve's confession of love any worse than he had. Steve was just as vulnerable and had endured his own trauma. Their relationship stood on a razor's edge. Thankfully, their pas de deux had culminated with the understanding that he didn't need to be afraid of love. Steve wasn't Alex.

Besides, James could finally recognize that he'd been falling in love with Steve since the day Steve had called him in a panic over getting lost. Grinning, he pressed a kiss into his lover's forehead. There were still just a few minutes before his alarm would wake them, so he enjoyed that time with his arms wrapped around the gentlest, kindest man he'd ever met.

Eventually, the alarm did go off, but James still had to shake Steve awake. His boyfriend slept like a rock. Once awake, though, the man stretched, muscles and sinew popping along his body before he sagged into the mattress to smile up at James. The remembrance of what had happened last night warmed the pit of James' stomach.

“What's the plan for today? This is my first opening night.”

“We're having breakfast with our families first. My parents flew into town last night and are meeting us, along with your mother, at the restaurant. After, we will go to Central Park to enjoy fresh air. Then we will go to theater to stretch and get ready for performance.”

“Guess I better put some pants on.”

James showered first, which afforded him enough time to wrangle Clint into cleaning himself up while Steve was otherwise occupied. The way he figured it, Clint was Steve's brother in every way that counted, and leaving him out of their family breakfast wasn't an option. Even if it took threats of mutilation and stranding the man in the wastes of Siberia to get him into clean clothes.

The surprise on Steve's face was worth the effort. “You're awake. And moving. And wearing adult clothes without the fires of Hades nipping at your heels.”

“Bucky threatened me with dismemberment if I didn't go to breakfast.”

“I said mutilation, not dismemberment.”

“Which is basically dismemberment to a Russian.”

“Then what is dismemberment to a Russian?”

“Death.”

“What is death to a Russian?”

“A one-way ticket to Vodka Paradise?”

“Then every Russian would long for death.”

“Duh. Why do you think they live in Siberia?”

Steve cracked up.

Hearing his laughter made tendrils of pleasure rush into James' toes. They had done that. Clint and he had made Steve laugh. It was like being presented with one of the wonders of the world.

Steve slung an arm over Clint's shoulders to haul him closer. “Thanks, buddy. Family breakfast wouldn't be the same without my brother from another mother. Only family members are allowed to attract flies in my apartment.”

“Funny,” groused Clint. “I seem to remember an ant invasion in our last apartment. Had a lot to do with the dirty dishes you horded in your room.”

Cocoa's leash was missing. It prompted an impromptu search and rescue mission because the idea of leaving Cocoa and Ivan in the apartment together without supervision caused apocalyptic premonitions. Clint eventually found it hiding behind the washer and looking as though it had gone nine rounds with a bobcat. They had their suspicions as to how it had gotten there. Said suspicions started with I and ended with N, but the cat was currently lounging in a sunny patch on his cat tree.

Finally ready, they all piled into his car and met the rest of their party outside Friend of a Farmer near Irving Plaza. It was a cute little restaurant done up inside to look like a Vermont farmhouse, and their table perched next to a brick fireplace with exposed beams overhead.

Hugs were exchanged, people were introduced, and James seated Steve on the end where Cocoa could curl up on the floor right next to him. Sarah and Winifred appointed themselves Table Mothers so they could promptly wrestle Clint into putting his napkin in his lap and coo over him when they heard the news of his impending divorce. The attention emboldened him enough to ponder aloud why a bunch of Russians would choose to eat an All-American restaurant.

Someone—James thought it was Sarah—kicked Clint under the table, but she needn't have bothered. His father, whose arm was draped across the back of his wife's chair, was quick to explain that they had arrived in America just a few years ago. Relations between America and Russia may have calmed since the Cold War, but with recent accusations of Russian tampering in an American election and a worrying trend toward nationalism, being Russian wasn't entirely profitable in North America. They had embraced American culture wholeheartedly and had worked hard to blend in.

Steve kept giving James glances loaded with meaning. Every time Batya smoothed Mamochka's sleeve or reached across the table for a condiment at her request, Steve would get this look that suggested he was twitterpated. Clearly, the man hadn't seen a loving marriage before. James could admit his parents were blessed with one of those fairy-tale type marriages that seemed too good to be true.

Their meals had just arrived when Rivka and Dino joined them. His sister's boyfriend pulled out Rivka's chair. That man oozed continental charm in spades, and James did not feel that his moment was stepped on when his sister thrust her finger forward to show off an engagement ring.

He did, however, take the opportunity to glare daggers at Dino and suggest that the Italian would need to work hard to deserve her. Of course, being her brother, he wasn't sure that any man would really deserve her. By the looks of their father, he felt the exact same way.

After the squealing and congratulations died down, Batya said, “I'm sure you agree, Mrs. Rogers, that our children are our pride and joy. I am blessed by my family. They are the apples of my eye.”

“I agree.” She reached over to tangle her fingers with Steve's.

Sarah Rogers got on fabulously with his parents. It was almost frightening how alike Sarah and Winnie were, both women strong in their opinions, unafraid to express themselves, eager to fight for their children, and very much into being independent. Sarah was more direct. Winnie was more subtle in her machinations, and James had a bad feeling those two would become the best of friends. 

After breakfast, they all took separate vehicles to Central Park where they enjoyed the spring sunshine. Batya got into a heated debate with Dino that he figured ended with the shovel talk, and Rivka and he escorted Mamochka between them into Central Park Zoo.

They spent a couple of hours looking at the animals. At one point, Steve disappeared with Clint. When they returned, Clint's eyes were red, but there was an unexpected hopefulness about him that seemed to have settled Clint's anxiety. James couldn't remember ever seeing him look genuinely content before. He later found out it was because Clint had submitted his resume into the zoo's conservation division.

In short, it was the perfect way to spend opening day, but eventually, Steve and James had to leave for the Lincoln Center complex while the others went their separate ways. They walked into the theater arm in arm and exchanged a quick kiss before parting to change into work out clothes.

Nerves weren't even an issue during stretching. Not even when the videographer arrived and followed James around like he was some kind of zoo exhibit, although it was a close call when he saw the cameraman who'd filmed him on the roof during the rain. It was easy enough to ignore.

He stretched. He ate protein. He showered. He ate carbohydrates. He went to the staff physical therapist to have his bad arm massaged to keep it limber. He drank water. He jogged into the corps de ballet locker room to grab something from Steve's locker and nearly ran into Leonid.

It was the first time they'd been alone since James had threatened to tell Mr. Jarvis about Leo's cocaine addiction. The other man lowered his glance and stepped back. James couldn't say if he was disappointed or not upon realizing Leo's refusal to make eye contact stemmed from his dilated pupils.

After all, addiction was a vicious cycle. Expecting one pep talk to out-shout cocaine's roar in Leonid's brain had been setting them both up for failure. James could do nothing but count himself extremely fortunate that no one close to him had ever succumbed to the disease.

“Just until the season is over,” Leo muttered. “I am here on work visa. They will deport me if I do not dance, and if they deport me, I will not see my son.”

He hadn't been in that situation before. He'd never had to choose between his livelihood and getting sober and couldn't say what his own decision would be. Maybe a friendly hand would go further than a reprimand. “First thing Monday morning, you talk to the staff physician. After season is over, you check yourself into rehab. Otherwise your son will become a man without his father's guidance.”

“You won't say anything?”

“If you collapse on stage, I will. If you haven't checked into a program after the season ends, I will.”

Leo nodded once.

The pair parted to go their separate ways. He couldn't say he was doing the right thing letting Leo dance while high. In the end, it wasn't his decision or his fault. Leo was a man and responsible for his own choices, and James wouldn't carry that guilt on his behalf.

By then, there was no more time.

He hurried off to his dressing room for hair and makeup. Thankfully, his costume covered all his tattoos, so he wouldn't need to sit through the application of concealer. They rushed him through final preparations, and before he knew it, he stood, still as an ice sculpture, behind the thick curtains that separated him from the audience. Heavy breaths billowed in the stillness surrounding him.

They slowed.

The first strains of timpani drums and violins sounding the coming of war.

The curtain rose.

***

He wore black tights. The sweat-slick lines of his body created serpentine patterns. He leaped toward the heavens, body a black, half-moon ink stain against the white backdrop. Muscles stretched pale skin taught. Shark fins sliced the water. The way he moved was poetry in motion. The Soldier was at war.

The razor blades of his feet sliced the hardwoods as they skimmed across the surface, a figure skater carving patterns across the ice. He planted himself like a tree before the audience, shoulders back, head high, icy eyes spreading hoar frost across the spectators.

Enemy soldiers appeared stage right, and a stray bullet struck him. His body arched. He staggered a few feet only to crumple to the stage as corps de ballet fought on around him. 

They wore red tights, red doublets. After the battle, Leonid, Dimitry, and Vasily slithered through the bodies until they found him. Still alive. His hand reached for assistance, and they granted it. They granted it. They granted it, dragging him across the stage to exit stage right.

Stage hands scurried around changing set dressings, and when the curtain rose again, the Soldier was strapped into a chair. He arched and shook when their torture fired through him. He was defiant. He spat in their faces and broke the restraints, but they were relentless. They were relentless, and finally, he broke. He split in half like a rock to a jackhammer. And they used him to commit atrocities.

Another scene change passed before he entered stage right. Leonid muzzled him with a black mask and pirouetted off stage. Across from him, the shadowy motions of Natalia preceded her arrival stage left. Her hair was a beacon against the drab gray of the backdrop.

She wore a black dress. The swan-like lines of her body bending with the grace of a willow tree. Upon her feet were black pointe shoes. They were the stilettos of a stilt-walker, the hooves of a gazelle. She bent when they met in the middle of the stage, coming to the Soldier as a butterfly to a flower.

Her allure called to him. She was a siren, a selkie, a titanium valkyrie sent to bear his soul to Valhalla, a falcon launching from his arm into the heavens, and he loved her. And he envied her. And his ice-encrusted heart wanted her. She came back to him and alighted upon his arm with the jingle of her tresses. He held her against his chest. A dove to be protected.

He wore ebony leather. The sweat-slick lines of his body powered into a corkscrew across the stage. The judges, his masters, his handlers, ordered him to his knees. He went without a struggle and bowed his head. They were his law, his judges, his gods. Leonid unrolled a scroll and pointed toward the Widow. “Bring her,” his body language said. “We want her,” said his eyes.

And he was theirs to command. The soldier rose. They strapped upon him a silver arm, an arm that could crush, an arm that could kill, an arm that had no place near a dove. He stalked across the stage like a panther, head low, body long and sinuous. She tore away her black dress.

She wore a black body suit. The spider's mark was emblazoned across her stomach. Powerful, her body dipped, legs splayed, knees bent, en pointe, fingertips touching the floorboard until she looked like a crab. Or a spider. Awaiting him. Ever-vigilante as he approached.

When he neared, she skittered to the side to evade him, but he pursued until there was only one direction for her to go. She slithered between his legs, clasped his waist, and rolled her body up his back until her feet were pointed toward the ceiling. He grasped her legs to give her a pivot point, and she lunged upward to sit upon his shoulders. Her thighs closed around his neck. She hurled them off-center and sent him skating across the floor.

Their dance was a war. The Widow relied on speed, the Soldier on strength, and they moved together as one unit, spinning and twisting and leaping until it became obvious neither could take the advantage over the other. Stalemate. They faced one another nose to nose, chests heaving from exertion.

They wore black gloves. Somewhere amidst the violence, their hearts had touched, so the Soldier's hand rose first. The Widow mirrored the pose. With a symbol crash, their palms touched. Together, they swayed to the susurrus melody like reeds in a gentle breeze. His arm encircled her waist to lift her from the floor, and she parted her legs into the splits as he spun them round and round the stage only to disappear stage left.

Corps de ballet members rushed on stage to carry out a scene with Leonid's villains.

After, came the intermission.

James sucked in deep breaths and accepted the bottle of water one of the back stage crew offered him, the crisp cold lancing through his burning body. The physician came running when he beckoned. He received a pain shot, and the physical therapist went to work trying to loosen up his left arm and shoulder that was tingling from nerve damage.

“You all right?” Steve asked.

“дa.” He took another long pull from his water. “Of course my arm chose today to remind me of its chronic mischief, but it's not bad.”

“You look great out there, Buck.”

A little smile played at his lips. “A nickname of a nickname.”

Steve's face colored pink, but he shrugged. When he spoke, it was in sing-song, voice pitched low. “Can't help falling in love with you.”

Which did nothing to still the flutter of his heart, so he didn't even attempt to remain professional and pressed a quick kiss to his boyfriend's lips. “Me, also. I--” And it still hard to make the words slip past his lips when they were colored with the true depths of his feelings. “I d-do.”

They embraced, kept safe in each other's arms, and James allowed himself to rest against his lover. Over Steve's shoulder, he watched the woman outside Natalia's apartment rush over to the ballerina. They fell into each other's arms to exchange quiet kisses. Only then did he notice the wedding band on Peggy's finger and the shadow of what may have been a tan line on Natalia's. Why had no one ever told him his little spider was married?

Too soon, the stage manager called him back into position. Renewed from his water and the pain medication, he moved back onto the stage, entering stage left. Across from him, his judges sat atop their tall benches. He planted himself there at the base, eyes blazing fury.

_“Bring her,”_ their body language said. _“We want her,”_ shouted their eyes.

He cut his hand through the air. “No,” his body responded.

They came down from their tall benches, cockroaches scurrying toward him. He resisted with hard arcs of his body and a flurry of battements, but in the end, there were too many of them, and they set upon him like maggots to rotting flesh. His body screamed pain. It screamed that it was broken.

Another scene change.

He wore a black muzzle. He wore a red star on his arm.

She wore a black bodysuit. She wore a red hourglass on her stomach.

Her dancing pleaded with him to break his conditioning.

His dancing pleaded with her to submit.

She wouldn't submit.

He wouldn't defy his masters.

So he fell, threw himself into the air as the backdrop of a mountain descended at the rear of the stage. He allowed his body to crumple to the hardwoods where he lay, broken and unmoving. Behind him, a section of the stage opened. Behind him, the Mountain lifted into the stage and stood, unchangeable, solid, monumental, Steve's body hard and broad.

The Mountain reached for the Soldier, but the Soldier refused, and they fought. They fought like lions. They fought like wolves. They fought like stallions. They fought like bulls. And as they clashed, James felt something deep inside the iceberg scrabbling to reach the sun.

Violins shrieked around them, and it suddenly dawned on him that he didn't need to be afraid anymore. He didn't need to protect himself. The Angel of Death wasn't coming back to finish him off. Neither was Alex. Neither was Victor. There was no reason to be afraid if he knew how to bend instead of break, how to build his house on the mountain rather than in the sand.

And as he threw himself against the immovable object that was Steve, the fissure that had cracked in his core finally shattered. Ice scattered around him, and his heart began to beat. Then came the thaw, a firebird being reborn. So this, he thought, was what it was like to see the summer.

The Soldier and the Mountain swayed together. The Mountain lifted him toward the sky, and he went willingly, turning his face toward the sun, reaching toward the heavens. When he returned to his feet, he stood in front of the Mountain, and it was only then he noticed the wetness on his cheeks, when he felt the tears emerging as the last bit of ice disappeared.

The Mountain unclasped his muzzle. It fell to the stage floor. They looked into the audience as the stage curtains descended.

For a moment, there was silence.

It was dashed against the rocks by thunderous applause, but James heard it from a distance. Instead, he turned in Steve's arms to look up at the man he loved, the man who deserved better but wanted him anyway. And there. Right there. The ember smoldering and warming his insides ignited.

“I love you,” he murmured. “So much. Steve. You are my firebird.” He caught Steve's hand and pulled it against his body where the firebird feather was permanently ink into his skin.

“God, I love you so much.”

And maybe they were crying. Maybe they clung to each other a little longer than normal, but no one bothered cajoling them about it. No one dared. Because the Soldier needed the Mountain to reach the heavens, and the Mountain needed the Soldier to be its shield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last full chapter of Soldier and the Mountain. In a day or so, I'll upload a short epilogue that wraps up the trial and sees our boys to happily ever after. I want to thank everyone for all your wonderful comments along the way. I have so enjoyed hearing your thoughts and listening to your tips. This fic is a thousand times better because of all you amazing readers. So thank you for the comments, the support, and the kudos. They have meant the world to me.


	15. Ondine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I probably pushed the M rating again. Sorry. The sticky bit comes with the title "eighteen months later" if smut isn't your thing.

You could hear a pin drop in the quiet courtroom when James concluded his testimony. 

Alex sat behind the defense table in his best suit and tie. He looked aloof, untouchable. He looked like a Greek statue, the epitome of masculine beauty but cold, so very cold and hard as the densest marble. For a moment, James wondered what he'd ever seen in Alexander Pierce, but the answer wasn't hard to miss. At one point, he had loved Alex's coldness, as it had made him feel more normal.

Jasper Sitwell, dangerous as a snake in tall grass, indicated he had no further questions, allowing the judge to dismiss James from the stand. He exchanged a quick glance with Steve, who sat in the audience awaiting his own turn in the witness box. Clint sat on one side, Sarah on the other. He flashed them a quick smile that may have faltered around the edges from stress.

Jazz had, of course, torn into James' story with a gusto. That was what was so hard about cases like rape. It was one man's word against another, and Jazz did not shy away from digging into a witness' character, something that was hilarious given that man's sticky relationship with Alex. James had gleefully slipped that into his testimony, how it had felt walking in to find Alex balls deep inside Jazz. The defense had objected of course on the basis of relevance, but the jury had still heard it.

So testifying hadn't necessarily rattled him. Jasper Sitwell hadn't rattled him. Recounting his own abuse at the hands of the defendant hadn't rattled him, so he had been expecting to feel something much stronger when it came to facing his former lover. But there had been nothing. That man couldn't hurt him anymore no matter the outcome of the trial. Scholarship gone. Soccer career gone. Political dreams gone. No one was going to elect a man who'd been very publicly tried on rape charges.

At first, the lack of reaction had scared him. He'd been afraid he was reverting back to the grayness of his life before meeting Steve and getting the lead in their ballet, but no. The ice hadn't returned. He still felt that warmth beating through his heart. It just meant his past was well and truly over.

Nothing mattered but the bright future ahead of Steve and him. He thought maybe that future included an engagement ring at some point. Maybe not right away, but he fell more and more in love with Steve every day they spent together. Volunteering at Pride parades with Sam. Working soup kitchens. Joining a group therapy for rape survivors together. How could he not love Steve?

When Clint scooted over to make room, James sat beside Steve. He rested his hand on his thigh, palm toward the ceiling, in invitation. Steve didn't hesitate to lace their fingers together.

***

Steve had been terrible at remembering chores as a child. He could admit that sometimes he didn't try hard enough to be useful to the household growing up, and sometimes he'd just plain milked his chronic illness to get out of doing chores. Being sick may as well have been good for something, after all. But whenever he tried, Nana would break out the story of living in the old country and washing clothes against a scrub board in the local river with a packet of powder and river water.

That was always followed by how overjoyed she'd been when her husband, God rest his soul, had purchased their first wringer washer. And oh, the back-breaking labor that had gone into putting the clothes through the wringer, and did he have any idea how lucky he was to have modern appliances? The answer was of course, no. No, he didn't know how lucky he was when he'd never been forced a day in his life to wash clothes in the river or use a wringer washer, but that story had never failed to put a fire under his butt. Chores had always gotten done on time for about a week after one of her talks. Of course, then he would go back his usual ways, requiring the cycle to start again.

Steve felt like he'd been put through a wringer washer when he finally stepped out of the courtroom following his testimony. He'd asked James to not be there, not because he didn't trust his partner. He just hadn't wanted James to have to hear what it had been like, especially not knowing that James had been in love with and sleeping with the man responsible for Steve's torture.

It had surprised him when James had agreed.

The door clicked shut with a resounding clunk, and he went straight into his partner's waiting arms. He'd done all right on the stand. It hadn't been a pleasant story to tell, and Mr. Sitwell had been cruel enough in his cross-examination that the judge had called a short recess so Steve could calm down. But it was done, and he wanted nothing more than to curl up in their apartment for a week.

Which was precisely what happened when they left the courthouse. It meant wading through the crowd gathered outside. The courtroom itself was closed to media, thank God—Steve didn't think he could have described his assault knowing every detail would wind up in the paper. Unfortunately, it meant they waded through flashing cameras and a wall of press shouting his name in an attempt to get a quote out of him. Honestly, did they think he would change his mind if they all shouted loudly enough?

It wasn't just reporters waiting outside, though. Protesters lined up. There was a distinct delineation between those who supported Steve and those who thought Alex was the victim of a giant conspiracy because clearly, Steve had taken drugs willingly and was out to ruin Alex's good name and career.

James rushed him through the gauntlet intending to get a cab back home, but the driver of a limo flagged them down. Compliments of Tony Stark, which was just weird. The professor had publicly gotten out of rehab last month. Things had been quiet around Camp Stark since.

They tucked into the dark interior gratefully for the ride back to Roosevelt Island.

Clint had permanently taken over Steve's former bedroom while James and he shared the master suite, so there was nothing unusual about James bundling him in his softest pajamas and tucking into bed together. They spent the rest of the day napping and listening to the rainstorm playing on an ambient music channel. After a while, Cocoa jumped onto the bed to rest her muzzle on Steve's foot.

Sometime in between naps and wakefulness, Ivan must have joined them, as they woke to the sight of Ivan curled into a ball atop Cocoa to steal the dog's warmth.

***

“James. Sweetheart, can you come do something about your demon spawn?” Steve called from the great room where Steve was supposed to be making him chocolate chip cookies. James had come home from a weekend in Luxembourg with a nasty head cold, so his partner was pampering him.

He hauled himself from his sickbed and padded into the other room where he found Ivan sitting atop their Roomba vacuum. The cat was riding it around like the thing was his mighty steed. Every time Ivan passed Cocoa, he swatted the dog, not with claws, mind you. There was no blood involved, but being hit startled the timid dog into whining.

“Ivan the Terrible, what will we do with you?” Only it sounded much more like “Iban de Turrible” what with how clogged his head was. He snatched the kitty into his arms at the same time he sneezed, so Ivan was not only mad at having his game interrupted by also mad about being covered in human snot. “Should have named you Grumpy Cat.”

“No, Mr. Bigglesworth.”

Which led to an impromptu viewing of the Austin Powers movies.

Naturally, that was when Steve got the call that the jury had returned a verdict.

***

“On the count of assault in the third degree, we the jury find the defendant guilty.”

He squeezed James' hand.

“On the count of criminal obstruction of breathing, we the jury find the defendant guilty.”

James gripped his hand back, their palms growing damp together.

“On the count of assault in the first degree, we the jury find the defendant guilty.”

Steve didn't realize how hard he was holding his mother's hand until he felt delicate bones rub together. It immediately made him let up on his grip.

“On the count of assault in the second degree, we the jury find the defendant guilty.”

He pressed a hand against his mouth. James gripped the back of his neck in a comforting hold.

“On the count of rape in the first degree, we the jury find the defendant guilty.”

Tears and snot dripped down his face. When had he started crying? He didn't realize he'd been crying until then, and Clint leaned over his shoulder with a tissue that he used to mop up his face. They believed him. The jury believed him.

“On the count of rape in the third degree, we the jury find the defendant guilty.”

Beside him, James shivered, so he wrapped his arm around his partner and pulled him close. The media had practically forgotten that the trial wasn't just about him. It was also about what Alex had done to James. He wasn't the only one coming away from this with a sense of justice served.

The judge said something about the prisoner being remanded into state custody until sentencing.

Steve, a bit overwhelmed, didn't even bother looking in the man's direction. It was over. They didn't need to live in limbo anymore, as Victor Creed and Mortimer Toynbee had already been tried and found guilty of all charges. They still awaited the trial of Johann Schmidt, but that felt less personal somehow, and the case was still ongoing to determine how deeply that man had slid into criminality.

***

A brisk summer wind pulled at James' suit jacket when they emerged from the courthouse into a wall of press. Naturally, word had already gotten out over Alex being found guilty, so they were waiting in force. He didn't expect to take questions, but then, he should have known better.

Steve paused on the steps when one reporter asked if Steve would like to respond to the bevy of voices claiming men couldn't be raped. He was quiet for a moment before saying, “I would implore them to think about their sons, their brothers, their fathers. Think about their teammates, the guy they have beers with on game day, the man whose body finally matches his inside. Would they treat the men in their lives the same way they've treated me and hapless other people who have been victimized? Because we're not men and women and the intersexed. We're people. Since when have people allowed the hard work to go undone? No victim of sexual assault should be treated like it was their fault.”

“Mr. Rogers! Do you have anything to say to the Hydra victims coming forward?”

“You are not alone. I urge you to reach out to your support system, and if they don't believe you, reach out to a number of online organizations who can get you the help you need. Don't let society silence you. It's time we stopped suffering alone and forced society to recognize us.”

“What do you have to say to those critics who think your relationship with Alex's former fiancé compromises your ability to tell the truth?”

“Alexander Pierce is a toxic man who took advantage of vulnerable people. Being vulnerable doesn't make us weak, though. It makes us human. Meeting James is the best thing that happened to me in recent years, and if anyone chooses to put aside our stories, then that's a reflection on them, not us.”

“Steve! People have been speculating that you danced in the Soldier and the Mountain with an insulin pump. Care to comment on that?”

“Sure,” he said, brightening at the question. “I'm a Type 1 Diabetes sufferer. It's taken me a long to say that without belittling myself. I have a disease. That doesn't make me a pariah, and let me give a shout out to all my fellow T 1 D sufferers. We're just people whose health isn't so great all the time. Doesn't mean we can't dance our hearts out.”

“You didn't consider taking your pump off for the performance?”

“Why should I have?”

“Mr. Rogers!”

Steve wrapped his arm around James' shoulder and finished descending the stairs. Stark's limo awaited them. They climbed inside and were soon closed away in the dark, quiet atmosphere. They laced their fingers together. James' head tucked onto his shoulder.

“Where to, Mr. Rogers?”

“Home.”

***

Eighteen Months Later

James scrambled to open the door to their suite without giving up the lips devouring his. The card finally slipped into place. The light went green, and he fumbled to open the door. Inside, the suite was dark, the air perfumed with peonies and honeysuckle, the same flowers that graced the reception tables downstairs. Someone had filled the hot tub. Little tea light candles danced across the surface.

The door clicked shut behind them, and their lips met again as the pair exchanged hungry, open-mouthed kisses, their moans and gasps filling the room with a symphony. James scrabbled at the navy tie encircling Steve's throat but left it draped over his shoulders in favor of opening the matching jacket, cut longer than a normal suit.

Fingers flew down the buttons of James' gray vest. They pushed it and the suit jacket off his shoulders to gain access to the mother of pearl buttons on his white dress shirt. Moonlight pouring in through the windows glinted from the matching bands on their ring fingers.

Steve eased back so their lips barely grazed. They breathed each other's exhalations, a charged glance passing between them as they stood, half-dressed in the place where they would make love for the first time as husbands, hands joined, fingers laced together.

Their bodies sang. Their hearts crooned. Steve's eyes cried “I love you! I want you! Make me yours!” So James used the tie still draped around his husband's shoulders to drag him into another kiss. Finally, he opened Steve's shirt and pushed it from his shoulders to let it go the way of his coat and vest. His fingers ached to skim the smooth skin and solid muscle now available for touching.

His husband had similar plans, as Steve worked quickly to finish undressing them.

“Bucky. My god, Bucky.”

“I know.”

Steve looked like he didn't know where to touch first, so he dropped to his knees on the plush carpet and looked up James' body until their eyes met again.

“'May I feel?' said he.”

A huff of laughter escaped. He brushed the bangs off Steve's forehead. “'I'll squeal,' said she.”

“'Just once,' said he.”

“'It's fun,' said she.” There was no dimming James smile or covering the laughter in his voice.

“'May I touch?' said he.”

“'How much?' said she.”

“'A lot,' said he.” Steve's line was punctuated by freeing James from the confines of his trousers.

“'Why not?' said she.”

His head tilted back, and he couldn't contain the soft sound of delight when Steve's mouth closed around his aching cock. He burrowed his fingers into the soft, blond hair, not to restrain but to anchor himself to a world where pleasure such as this could belong to him.

Clear, blue eyes gazed up at him. Red lips stretched around his cock, and Steve swallowed him down, down until the man's nose nuzzled against his curls, down until Steve swallowed around him and James forgot how to stand, held aloft only by his husband's strength.

Steve popped off with a wet sound. “'May I stay?' said he.”

“'Which way?' said she.”

“'Like this,' said he.”

“'If you kiss,' said she.”

A little jolt of laughter punched from him when Steve kissed the crown of his cock, shining with pre-come and his husband's saliva.

Finally, he collapsed to the mattress with Steve above him. For a while, they forgot their little game, an impromptu wrestling match ending with James on his back, legs spread obscenely, and his husband's soft tongue lapping at his pucker. The tip pressed in. James moaned and arched toward the ceiling. His fingers dug into the blanket beneath him, as he wouldn't risk pulling Steve's hair too tightly.

James got him back moments later by rolling them until he could treat Steve to the same delight, hands spreading his husband until he could gain access to his most vulnerable flesh. They didn't bother with condoms anymore unless they were both in a hurry, so when Steve was ready, he slicked himself and pressed in gently, sweetly, until Steve's body melted around him.

James allowed them time to adjust before murmuring, “'May I move?' said he.”

“'Is it love?' said she.”

“'If you're willing,' said he.”

“'But you're killing,' said she.”

Which wasn't too far from the truth. He tried shifting his hips, but Steve kept his long legs clamped tight around James' hips so they were locked together and desperate, trembling with need for each other. Finally, finally, he eased his grip enough for James to move. 

The rhythm they found was intense, the noises of their bodies coming together and pulling apart filling the suite with a heady atmosphere and the aroma of their musk. Steve's fingers dug into James' back to encourage him. He bit the man's shoulder to muffle himself.

“'C-c-c-ome,' said he,” James moaned against his neck.

“'Umm,' said she.” The orgasm tore through Steve's body like a thunderstorm.

“'You're divine!' said he.” James' cock pulsed inside him as his husband attained his own peak.

“'And you're mine,' said she.”

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's over, and I have the sniffles. Thank you so much to everyone for reading and commenting. I can't even... You guys are the best, from the people who cheered this along from the start to those who offered helpful tips on the things I didn't research thoroughly enough to the people who left kudos. You're all amazing.
> 
> There was a sound clip in youtube of Tom Hiddleston reading "may i feel, said he" that inspired the use of that poem in this epilogue. I think most of them have been removed due to copyright, but if you ever get the chance to hear it, do yourself a favor, and listen. Holy smokes. It was the whole reason I wrote the ee cummings poetry into the fic. I wish I could share it with you.
> 
> Also, keep an eye out for my upcoming fics. I have an Exit to Eden AU in the works that explores sexual healing and awakening starring Steve/Bucky and Clint/Wanda.
> 
> Come chat me up on [Tumblr](http://marleymortis.tumblr.com/)


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